


A Long Way Home

by ceywoozle



Series: A Long Way Home [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Case Fic, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Time, I'm so sorry, Kidnapping, M/M, Violence, crossover fic, improbably circumstanced sex, ooc, the characterisation in this is shameful, totally gay baby sherlock and daddy john in the later scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 73,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where Moriarty's face never appeared on England's television screens, Sherlock Holmes is in exile after the events of "His Last Vow." But even though Sherlock is prepared to go down without a fight, something happens to change his mind and he realises he needs to get back to London somehow to save John Watson once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cairo

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by this prompt here:  
> http://gallifrey-the-final-frontier.tumblr.com/post/73451765086/au-where-sherlock-is-put-on-the-plane-at-the-end

Cairo is a symphony of dust and sound. It's spice and sweat and unwashed bodies, thin darting fingers and wide dark eyes in impassive faces. You would think this place would be golden, its layers built from the desert, but it's grey and it's filthy and everywhere people are starving, their grins pulling at hollow cheeks. Mere streets away the tourists are huddled, like prize bulls, fat and penned, their clothes and faces scrutinised by greedy eyes.

Cairo is steeped in history, it's past bleeding out from doorways and between paving stones, soaking the air and the muffling the brain with its pervasiveness. It's everywhere, and Sherlock Holmes can't get it out of his head, can't seem to focus. He doesn't care about history, but the millenniums of death in this place are making him giddy and his thoughts are heavy and slow. It's this place, he thinks. Just this place. Remember why you're here.

No one is looking at him but he can feel the eyes boring into him anyway. From a street away, from a window over there, from an alleyway and from that stoop. No one is looking at him but he is watched all the same. A girl is in rags and sweeping ineffectively in a doorway. She glances at him and briefly he can see the intense disinterest. He's familiar with these glances. They've been following him since he'd gotten off the plane three days ago. He'd made one or two attempts at evasion, only to show them that he was trying, but he doesn't care, not really. The girl is sweeping again, but her movements are too studied. She's been sweeping that same stone for several minutes now and doesn't seem to have noticed.

It's hot and dry. The sun is beating down on his dark head and he's sweating. He hopes the dye he stole from the vendor two days ago to darken his skin hasn't been compromised and he pats awkwardly at his face. He knows there's no point. All the people who are looking for him know that he's here. Mycroft has wildly overestimated his chances and any day Sherlock is waiting for that moment, a sudden hand from an alley or a quick knife in the back. He doesn't much care which. He prefers the knife, being left to bleed out slowly into the dust rather than the chance of being caught alive. They'll want answers and he doesn't have any to give. He was trusted only with what he needed to know and not even that was enough. No one expected him back. No one even expected him to succeed. Mycroft's expression had said it all, but it was far better than the alternative, rotting away into madness in a solitary cell. He knows this is a mercy, but something safe that for so long had been curled tightly in his chest has begun to die, and he can feel it gently sloughing off, excreted with his sweat and his urine. There's not much left of it and any day now the place where it had coiled will be hollow.

He tries to focus on the street in front of him but he's tired and oddly enough hungry as well. He tries to remember if he's eaten recently, but though something about the scent of spiced lamb seems familiar he can't bring it to mind. He has some money. Not very much. He's meant to check in every three days with M16's operatives so tonight there will be someone waiting for him. He doesn't see why. He has nothing to report. He's never been interested in playing their games and now he has even less reason to do so. There's nothing they can do to him and they know it.

The street widens briefly into a square. A tiny Coptic church almost blends into the background, utterly out of place in this predominantly Muslim neighbourhood and a man covered in rags and flies lies slumped beside its door. Sherlock walks past, aware of eyes boring into him.

This is how he passes the day, how he's passed the last two days, as well. He walks, randomly and without purpose. Once or twice he ducks swiftly into an alleyway or scrambles over a rooftop, but it's purely for show. He manages to lose his watchers once so he walks around until he finds them again. He wonders how long it will take, how far this last act of spite and defiance will take him. He's waiting for the knife as he eats lamb from a vendor and swallows down four cups of the strong, sweet Turkish coffee that's everywhere. It's disgusting and he misses London all over again.

Sometime in the early evening a boy runs past him, brushing by, and Sherlock feels the pressure against his palm and automatically closes his hand around the ball of paper. He waits several minutes before finding a spot momentarily free of scrutiny in the archway of a courtyard and smooths out the note that had been pressed on him.

_El-Sisi-1400-Baskerville._

Sherlock is slightly embarrassed by its simplicity. He wonders which of the people following him is responsible for the cipher and he wavers between them for a moment before coming down on the side of M16.

He spends the next hour wandering the more poverty-stricken neighbourhoods and asking a discreet question or two in perfect Egyptian Arabic. When he's satisfied, he wanders off to find somewhere to wait. It is almost dark by the time exhaustion leads him to a small space between two buildings, and he slumps to the ground and is asleep before he realises it.

When he wakes up, hours later, it is completely dark around him and he knows instantly that he's not alone. He is lying on his side with his back pressed against a wall and he turns his head so that he can see the Egyptian sky between the roofs of the two buildings. It's deep blue and speckled in star light and for a brief heartbeat Sherlock is lost, thinking of John's eyes, and maybe it's because of this brief moment of distraction that the second man in the alleyway is able to slide the needle into his neck. But mostly it's because Sherlock Holmes just doesn't really care.

 


	2. James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit, almost everything I know about Egypt I learnt from Amelia Peabody.

Sherlock wakes up and regrets it immediately. His head is pounding and his throat is dry, his tongue swollen in his mouth. His shoulders are twisted back and his arms are tied securely to a chair, his ankles to the legs. Something is pricking his flesh where the bindings are holding him and he flexes slightly and immediately gasps and flinches back as a dozen needle lancets of pain jerk him fully back to awareness. There is an intense burning where the tips have broken skin. Barbed wire? Something similar, finer and longer he thinks, coated with some kind of toxin or perhaps just something that causes pain. He admires with a bitter smile the particular brand of torture. The bindings are relatively loose but any struggling or large movements would rip the flesh around his hands and ankles to shreds while simultaneously injecting the substance into the wounds. Regular ropes secure him at the chest and thighs to keep him from slumping over while unconscious, but these too are relatively loose, there for support as opposed to restraint. The knots are visible and simple and clearly there as some form of psychological torture. He realises, too, that the chair he sits in is wet and the pungent smell of urine is permeating the air. He feels the intensity of the shame sweeping through him but he knows that this, too, is deliberate, so he does his best to ignore it, to push it aside and concentrate on where he is.

It's a small room with space enough for a table on which there is nothing but a rusty electric lamp that is providing light with a weak, yellow glow, two chairs, and single cot lined up against the left wall. There is no sense of ownership. It is a way station, a place of convenience. No one calls this home. There is a carpet hung on the opposite wall and Sherlock suspects it covers a window. Old-fashioned shutter is likeliest considering the way the carpet sways slightly from a draft.

He is alone, but he suspects it isn't for long and he isn't disappointed. Within five minutes of his waking a door opens behind him. He hears a murmured conversation then steps move towards him and the door thuds shut. A guard outside, then. He idly wonders how many. Probably two, but there's no way to be sure.

The footsteps move around him and he keeps his head down as a pair of legs and soft-shod feet come into view. The man (it is a man) is wearing a dark grey gallibaya, but there are trousers underneath, silk and very expensive. The soft-soled slippers make a rasping sound as he walks and only when he sits in the opposite chair does Sherlock look up, his face impassive.

The man across from him is for the most part average. His skin is neither very dark nor very light, but a sort of half-shade of coffee with just a touch too much milk. He is neither overly tall nor exceptionally short. His eyes are dark and too bright and he is handsome in an objective kind of way, but Sherlock reads cruelty in the lines around his mouth and disdain in his jaw. His hands are loose and at rest on his knees, but there is a tension in him that Sherlock doesn't miss, a sense of being ready. He is coiled tightly and he watches Sherlock across from him with a slightly questioning tilt to his head.

“You know, I didn't think we would ever catch you,” the man says in perfect English. There is the touch of native Arabic in his vowels and his speech patterns lean in that direction, as well, but it only serves to make the low, smooth voice pleasantly exotic. There is the slight hint of humour in his tone.

“That's because you're idiots,” Sherlock says. It's difficult to speak around his tongue, which feels like a dead weight in his mouth, but he doesn't intend to just sit here while the man babbles on. “So, who are you then?”

“I believe I'm asking the questions, Mr. Holmes.”

“How unoriginal.”

There is a pause. “You don't take this very seriously, do you?”

“Not really.”

The man gets up and crosses easily to where Sherlock is restrained. He stands there for a moment, gazing down at his prisoner and Sherlock doesn't bother to meet his eyes. It's a power play, a clear bid for dominance and Sherlock doesn't feel like playing. He sighs and looks bored.

The slap comes from nowhere. Sherlock reels, and though the physical violence is not a surprise, the nature of it is. It's almost playful, serving more to push him off balance and he realises why a second later when his wrists and ankles light up in sudden pain, a hundred needle points tearing into his flesh and gouging him before he is able to centre himself again, gasping with the burn of it, his skin on fire.

The man is back in his seat, giving Sherlock a thoughtful look. “There is chili pepper on them. Isn't it ingenious? I thought of it myself.”

“How clever of you,” Sherlock grinds out between clenched teeth.

“Yes, I thought so. Now, do try to be polite, Mr. Holmes. This gets tedious so quickly.”

Sherlock says nothing, waits for the fire to fade. He tries to think of something else but all that is coming to mind is the way John Watson used to smile at him. When was the last time? The wedding to Mary Morstan? Yes, it must have been. John hasn't had much reason to smile since then. A vision of Mary comes to mind, swollen with pregnancy, a warm smile with hard, hard eyes. He banishes it. This isn't working. Back to John. John. John. Blue eyes the same colour as the Egyptian night.

“You are wondering who I am,” the man across from him says, pulling Sherlock back into the room, relegating John once more to the protected place behind his ribs.

“It doesn't much matter. I don't know anything so no matter how long you keep me or how much you torture me you won't learn anything.”

“I think you are mistaken as to my intention.”

“How novel.”

There is a moment of silence and Sherlock can see that he's annoyed the man. A brief flash of triumph surfaces and he pushes it aside.

“Perhaps you will have heard my name. It's Moran. Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Moran. The idiot who failed to blow up parliament. His brother? Daddy had a bit of a thing of exotic women, did he? How dull.”

Moran's eyes narrow. “Indeed. How dull. Perhaps _this_ name will mean something to you, then.” There is a beat and then, “James Moriarty.”

Sherlock freezes, every muscle seizing and too late he remembers his wrists and ankles. He forces himself to relax again, back to centre. Moran is watching him and there's a smirk on his face.

“Yes, I thought you might. I am what you might call his second in command. Well, first in command now, I suppose, seeing as how you killed him.”

“He shot himself.”

“Yes. He did, didn't he. And do you know who's to blame, Mr. Holmes?”

“His father, probably. Early childhood abuse, probably emotional. Not enough love in his life,” he says this mockingly, staring hard at the man across from him and he sees the telltale flush of anger.

“Not wise, Mr. Holmes,” Moran says, and there is no warning in his eyes as he steps forward and hits Sherlock hard in the face with his fist. It is a blow made in anger and Sherlock reels under it, feeling the legs of the chair tip and resettle with a thud as he cries out at the fire now roaring through his flesh.

It takes him a moment to recover this time and he is panting, tears running down his face. He is beginning to be angry now and he stares at Moran and wonders what it was about Jim Moriarty that he attracted these people to him, the obsessive and the desperate. He saw it in Mary, too, the dangerous set of obstinacy that so defined her possession of John Watson, turning any action against her into the worst kind of risk while that life pulsed inside her womb. He feels sick at the thought, remembering John's face when he had explained to him exactly why he needed to take his wife back.

“Tell me, Colonel Moran, did he ever love you back?”

Moran doesn't even look surprised. “Yes, I was in the army. I wondered if you would pick up on that. James always said you were so good.”

“So I am.”

“Not very modest, though.”

“I never saw the point.”

“You're still not taking me very seriously, Mr. Holmes. I'm not sure what to think of that.”

“There's nothing you can do to me, Moran. You want me dead, so kill me. I won't stop you.”

There is a thoughtful silence and the amusement is back on Moran's face. “I see. Exiled. This is your execution, being here. You know, Magnussen was a very useful man in his way. I always found his bad manners to be a little tiresome but James always thought he was so amusing. However, I cannot begrudge him the credit now. He brought you here and now I get to kill you myself. The turnaround is delightful.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Getting impatient? Forgive me.” He rises to his feet and reaches under the table, pulling out a gun from a compartment that Sherlock hadn't even noticed. Moran checks the chamber with a careful eye and snaps it shut with a metallic click. Sherlock shuts his eyes because that sound is so deeply associated with John in his mind that for a moment he can pretend that John is here and he is ashamed as he feels the tears start again, but this time it has nothing to do with his hands. His chest is aching and he can feel the last safe thing inside him begin to uncoil, slide away and bleed out of him, dripping red onto the floor.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes! So sad! Surely better things await.” Moran moves around behind him and Sherlock hears the gun cock and the barrel is pressed against the back of his skull. “And after all, it won't be so very long before you are in the same place. But I will make sure that John Watson knows that you cried for him,” Moran says and Sherlock barely has time to register that when there is a sound from the corridor behind him and the door slams open against the wall.

Everything freezes for a moment, then suddenly someone is talking. Sherlock doesn't understand the language. Nubian perhaps, one of the Aswan dialects, he thinks, and it is being spoken too quickly to pick out the familiar words, but his mind is whirring now because Moran had said 'John Watson.'

_John._

Moran is speaking back now, urgency quick in his voice and Sherlock makes a guess. He stays still, unmoving, doing his best to look hopeless, and a moment later Moran snarls and flings himself from the room. The door slams shut behind him.

To his disgust Sherlock hears three separates sets of feet moving away. Moran is an idiot, but it makes things considerably easier for him.

He is moving already. His hands he'd prefer to keep relatively unscathed unless he can help it, but his ankles are better protected and he starts to wriggle his feet upwards. Trickles of flame run along them as he drags them upwards but for the most part it is tolerable because Moran really is an idiot. Sherlock wastes a precious second mourning the loss of Jim Moriarty but also being slightly embarrassed on his behalf. Chili pepper burns but only before it numbs.

As soon as the wires reach the slippers he is wearing he doesn't even try to be careful anymore, counting on the leather to protect his feet from the barbs. He pulls them up and his feet are free.

It's enough. The chair isn't fastened to the floor  _(moron)_ and Sherlock tips himself forward and manages to balance himself enough that he is able to drag himself towards the window. The wires are stabbing into his hands now but he hardly feels them, the nerves almost completely numb. There is still no sound from the corridor outside and Sherlock makes a mental note to learn Nubian. He wishes he knew what they were doing, how much time he has, but there's no helping it.  _Keep moving._

The carpet is covering the whole wall and it's thick and heavy, but the fastenings on top are old and badly set, taking advantage of chips in the stone walls instead of having been properly mounted.

He drags it down by twisting around and pulling and it lands on the floor with a cloud of choking dust almost sending Sherlock sprawling.

The window that is revealed is a plain rectangle built into the stone wall at waist height. And as he thought: shutters. But like everything else in this place they are old and the bar is rotted. There is no light seeping through the cracks and he hopes that's it's late enough into the next morning that the city, wherever he is in it, is beginning to stir. He will rip his hands free if he must, but he'd prefer not to if at all possible.

Sherlock uses his shoulder, throwing himself bodily against the aged wood. He can feel it crack, but he's clumsy due to the restraint and the wood is still intact even as he reels from the blow, staggering backwards and almost falling. He manages to keep his feet and sends himself crashing into the shutters once again.

The third time he does this, Sherlock hears a cry from the street. Arabic with a heavy English accent. He is torn between relief and exasperation. _Bloody MI6._

By now there are sounds from the corridor, men shouting and one scream that doesn't bode well for its owner. It takes another thirty seconds before MI6 fights their way up to the tiny first floor room where Sherlock is being held. Two men are killed, both Nubians, and Moran is nowhere to be found.

 


	3. Adeela Doud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of modern Egypt is abysmal (basically, see the Amelia Peabody Mysteries) and googling only takes one so far. If you see something terribly, terribly wrong, please tell me.  
> Also, I have absolutely no understanding of Arabic name conventions and the formality/informality therein. Give me a shout if I've horrifically offended you with my ignorance. I'd be more than happy to learn.

Adeela Doud reminds Sherlock of Sally Donovan; relatively intelligent with a strong sense of loyalty and a healthy dose of distrust. The hardness of her black eyes reads out a sense of stubborn determination and the set of her shoulders a certain defensiveness that comes from being a Muslim-born woman in charge of a troop of Muslim-born men.

There are two other men in the fair-sized building, the ruins of some abandoned archaeology camp on the outskirts of Cairo, far enough into the desert that no one really cares enough who currently inhabits its remains. Sherlock doesn't much care who these men are. He'd been given their names after they had cut him loose but he hadn't been listening. It's Adeela Doud that's important. She's the commander in these walls and despite her natural defensiveness she has their respect. Sherlock reads a history of brutal self-doubt in her face and in the tension in her stride. She is wearing a hijab and the blouse that she has on is full-sleeved and flowered. She wears jeans and sneakers and she paces in the narrow space between table and wall, her face tense and angry.

“You tell me, Mr. Holmes, that you were kidnapped by James Moriarty?”

Sherlock represses a sigh. “His name is Sebastian Moran. He is Jim Moriarty's...” he waves his bandaged hands around his head, searching for a word. “Lieutenant. Something.” He is exhausted and he wants to sleep. He wonders what's wrong with him that all he's been able to think about since leaving England is food and rest.

“Moriarty is dead, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock doesn't try to suppress his sigh this time. “Yes, thank you.”

She stops her pacing and narrows black eyes at him. “Are you mocking me, Mr. Holmes?”

He wishes she would stop saying 'Mr. Holmes' every time she addresses him. It's getting annoying and Sherlock is too tired to deal with annoyances.

“Miss Doud, I am fully cognisant of the face that Jim Moriarty is dead. I was there when he shot himself in the head. Sebastian Moran was, for lack of a better title, his second in command and he currently has two ambitions: one is to kill me, the other is to kill John Watson. Believe me when I tell you that there is no power in this world that will prevent me from stopping that from happening whatever your orders to the contrary might be.”

The MI6 agent looks at him, her full lips pursed and her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Mr. Holmes--”

He is on his feet in an instant, the rickety table in front of him—littered with the evidence of the first aid supplies that had gone to dress his torn flesh—is tossed like so much kindling against the nearest wall. “STOP CALLING ME MR. HOLMES!”

He is panting and flushed and he doesn't even understand where all this rage has suddenly come from. The room has frozen and all three pairs of eyes are on him in varying degrees of shock. Adeela Doud is watching him like the poacher watches the tiger she has just realised has become aware of her presence.

He breathes for a moment and he closes his eyes, trying to shut them out, trying to shut out everything. _John_ , he thinks. _Think of John._

He opens his eyes to find them all still watching him and the hands of the two men are hovering over their holstered guns. Carefully, Sherlock sits down again. He thinks about apologising but he doesn't really understand what he would be apologising for. The stupidity of these people is overwhelming and all he can think about is Sebastian Moran's last words to him.  _“I will make sure that John Watson knows that you cried for him.”_

_Mary,_ he thinks.  _It's going to be Mary._

“You need to listen to me,” he says, aware of how taut his voice is. He isn't looking at them. He can't look at them. He's afraid of seeing the dense idiocy on their faces, afraid that nothing he says will do any good because it's  _orders orders orders_ with these people. No one can think for themselves, no one even wants to. They accept what they've been given and they do it without question. He hates them. Hates them with every fibre of his being.

“Listen. Miss Doud. Listen to me, please. They are going to go after John Watson. You need to get a message to my brother. Tell Mycroft Holmes that he needs to watch John Watson. Tell him it's important.”

The MI6 commander is silent for a moment and he can feel her scrutiny, the measure of her control. “I respect the fact that you're fond of Dr. Watson, Mr. H--” she begins then stops short, biting the name off and he smirks to himself. “I understand that you're concerned,” she continues. “But there is no reason to think that he's in danger. And even if he is, our job isn't to watch over the safety of a single man who is of no strategic value to the country whatsoever. It is your brother who gave the order to have you sent here. Your brother who gave the information on the demise of James Moriarty's organisation. Now you are telling us that it still exists and that its solitary goal is to take the life of a single man who is of no value to us or anyone other than yourself.”

He can feel his rage growing again and he forces it down, forces himself to think of John, of blue eyes, of a callused hand in his own, shaking it goodbye-forever.

“Miss Doud, I'm aware that you have your orders, but if you would just listen--”

“I'm sorry, Mr. H—Sherl—” she stops. She is frustrated. “Mr. Holmes,” she finally says, her jaw thrust out in a determined jut. The two men are watching her. There is no judgement in their faces, but Sherlock knows that she is aware of their gazes and feeling judged nonetheless. “We are all given our orders, yourself included. Tomorrow you will be back in the field. You've been given your mission the same as us. I'm sorry that you're worried for your friend but that's behind you now. I have family, too. I have friends. I miss them every day. But this is the job and we all have our duty to do. Please don't make this difficult for us. I know your brother is a powerful man, but he isn't here and you are. You will do this thing you were sent to do just the same as the rest of us.”

Sherlock says nothing. He knows there's nothing he can say.

With an effort he wipes all expression from his face and only when he's satisfied does he look up again, meeting her hard stare and nodding.

“You're right. Of course, you're right.” He gestures to the remains of the table and the scattered medical supplies. “I'm sorry.”

She watches him for a moment, her own face as blank as his, and for a moment he thinks it's too much, Sherlock Holmes apologising. But it's evident she doesn't know him and finally she gives a nod and her expression softens infinitesimally.

“You'll sleep here tonight with Aariz and Rajih. Tomorrow you will return to doing what you are meant to be doing.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Thank you. For...” he gestures again with his bandaged hands and ankles.

She nods again, then turns to the two men and rattles off a list of instructions in Arabic that Sherlock acknowledges in his head but ignores. It's about security and food and sleep rotation and no doubt in there somewhere she is signalling them to watch Sherlock carefully between them. They will be following him from now on. That he is sure of.

She leaves soon after. It' afternoon still and it's hot outside. Or at least, hot for Sherlock who can still feel London's last breath if he closes his eyes and concentrates hard enough.

As soon as she's gone he stands, claiming one of the camp beds set up along the wall for his own. He is exhausted. His anger has evaporated and left him limp.

Across the room, Aariz and Rajih have settled down near the doorway and talk quietly in Arabic as one of them (it doesn't matter which one) pulls a deck of cards out from his pocket. They lay their guns on the floor beside them, ready.

Sherlock falls asleep, the sound of their quiet laughter in his ears.

 


	4. Chasing the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR DRUG USE.
> 
> Yep. I'm definitely being watched by the government. *Shiftily deletes browser history*

When Sherlock wakes up it's light outside. He is sluggish and disoriented and has no idea if he's slept a few hours or for days. The pressure on his bladder implies that it's been longer than a few hours, however, and he pushes himself off the camp bed, every joint aching in protest and his wrists and ankles throbbing under their bandages.

Nearby in another cot one of the MI6 agents is asleep (Rajih?) and a shadow in the doorway shows the presence of the second one (Aariz?). Sherlock tries to remember the direction the doorway is facing and the position of the sun in relation to it, but his mind is feeling too muddled and in the end he wanders over to the door and sticks his head out.

The agent is sitting on a sun-bleached, wind-scoured collection of wood and half-exposed nails that might once have been a bench. He is digging at a block of wood with a knife, teasing out the shape of a bear, clearly identifiable. It's a bizarre hobby for man in the twenty first century to cultivate.

He looks up as Sherlock looms over him and offers half a smile.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says, his voice cautious and respectful.

Sherlock grunts. “What time is it?”

“Ten in the morning.”

Sherlock feels a mild stab of panic at the amount of time that's gone by.

“There is food. In the second room, we keep all our supplies there.”

Sherlock grunts, then looks around the outside of the house. “Toilet?”

The MI6 man points to the left. “Outhouse in back.”

Sherlock nods and wanders off to find it. He's aware of being watched but ignores it. If the man wants to watch him piss he's more than welcome.

The outhouse is in much the same state as the rest of the abandoned camp, a dilapidated structure constructed of mud and straw bricks that goes a long way to prove the intended impermanence of this camp. Sherlock goes in, not quite knowing what to expect, but is pleased to discover that it has been carefully cleaned out and kept up. The toilet itself is a mere hole in the ground with a wooden stand with a hole cut into it built up around it.

When he finishes, using the (thankfully) modern toilet paper that's been left there, he emerges in time to see the quick flash of light from around the corner of the main building. He smirks to himself. Mirrors. _Quaint._ When he comes back around the building the MI6 man is back on the bench, unfinished bear in hand.

Sherlock doesn't even glance at him as he passes, turning back into the main building.

The second room, off to the right of the door, is smaller than the first and had probably once been someone's bedroom. There are supplies neatly packed against the back wall and Sherlock digs out dried fruit and biscuits from a likely looking box. He wolfs them down, shocked by his own sudden hunger, then digs around until he finds some strips of dried meat. Lamb? Goat? He doesn't care. There are cans of vegetables and fruits, soup and pasta, but it's too much effort. He can get something proper to eat when he gets back to Cairo if he feels like it. He downs a bottle of tepid water in one go then opens a second one.

He's chewing at an apple, one of the few fresh items he can find, when he discovers a box filled with various pieces of costume and clothing. He ignores the more modern items and pulls out a thick brown gallibaya and a pair of loose cotton trousers that don't denote any particular tradition or nationality but that look comfortable enough and won't irritate his ankles with rubbing. The leather slippers from yesterday are stiff with his blood and tattered where the barbs had torn into them, but he pulls them back on regardless. Shoes are more difficult to replace comfortably and he has no intention of being caught a second time anyway.

He finishes the second bottle of water while he dresses then goes back to the box, sorting through until he finds, buried at the very bottom, a handful of lethal looking knives which make him raise an eyebrow. These are certainly not official issue. He unsheathes a short curved-bladed creation and tests its edge. He's not fond of weapons but he's feeling cautious. He's aware now that his options have become limited and he decides to risk its disappearance from the box being noted. He rearranges the remaining clothing so that the rest of the knives are covered, then grabs a worn leather belt from the top of the box and awkwardly wraps it around the knife so that it's secure against his left forearm. The loose sleeves of the gallibaya hide any hint of its presence. He rubs at his eyes until they look bloodshot and bruised, then takes a last bottle of water and a second apple and goes back into the main room, dragging his steps and stumbling slightly.

The second agent (Aariz?) is still breathing deeply on the camp bed , but Sherlock can see the faint line of tension in his face. He makes sure not to look too closely at the man and passes through the room and back outside where the bear is almost fully formed now.

The MI6 agent (Rajih?) looks up at him as he emerges. “You should wait until evening. It will get hot again soon.”

“This place is always hot.” He rubs at his face, stretching the skin over his cheeks. The rasp of three day old beard is irritating and he scratches at it with blunt nails. He looks like shit and he knows it. His eyes are watering in the bright light and he knows the other man is looking him over, evaluating.

“I need money,” Sherlock says. “I was supposed to be resupplied at my meet yesterday.”

The agent nods. “Envelope in the messenger bag where you slept.”

He finds it easily, a long yellow envelope marked _H2_. (Insulting.) He tears it open and pulls out the stack of Egyptian pound notes. It's more than he expected, which is fortunate. He may not need to steal much after all. He tosses the envelope aside and tucks the paper currency under a loop of the belt around his arm, making sure his back is turned to the sleeping agent as he does so. 

He emerges back into the sunlight, squinting at the desert around him and, ignoring the MI6 man on the bench, he wanders off, aiming towards the filthy shadow of Cairo settled in the near distance. There are no main roads nearby, one of the attractions of this place, but he soon finds some smaller ones that he follows, wending a more or less direct line to the sprawl of the city ahead.

He doesn't even bother trying to glance around. He can feel himself being watched.

It's only as the broken suburbs of Cairo begin to leer up out of the desert that he makes an effort to check behind him. He pretends to stumble, sprawling onto stone with a curse, and manages a swift glance backwards as he picks himself up again. He sees a flash of movement but doesn't try to get a closer look. He stumbles onwards as Cairo slowly begins to spring up around him.

He heads towards the Medieval quarter. Drugs aren't difficult to find in this city, but Darb Al-Ahmar has the benefit of having become familiar to him in his wanderings. He doesn't know how long it takes him to get there, but he is sweating and the apple and water are both gone by the time the old streets start to become known again.

It isn't difficult for him to find the right people to ask and to follow their discreet directions. They are shifty-eyed and suspicious, but he knows intimately the old need and he knows how to fake it.

The derelict old house, when he finds it, is half fallen-in stone and half tent, drab cloth pegged up in doorways and crumbled windows. There is a man sitting outside, slumped against the wall, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. When Sherlock approaches him he looks up and looks him over. Sherlock is not fooled by the brevity of the glance. This man is not a fool. He sums Sherlock up quickly and when Sherlock goes to push his way past the curtained doorway he isn't stopped.

Inside it's cool and quiet and dark and utterly familiar in its shuffling silence. There are pallets and filthy mattresses lining the walls. Some of the men on them are passed out. Sherlock sees at least one man who has choked on his own vomit and has probably been dead now for at least an hour.

He passes into an inner room and among the bodies he finds a man slumped against the wall. He's watching Sherlock with eyes that are careful even behind the glaze of heroin, and Sherlock negotiates a small amount. He is careful not to show how much or where his cash is hidden. He holds out the smallest bill he has, wheedling with the dealer in Egyptian Arabic until the man agrees and hands over the white powder.

Sherlock retreats back to the first room. There is no one conscious enough to be watching him and the point of these houses is that one will be left alone. He makes the appropriate noises, rustling the plastic, pausing and scraping, and then snorts sharply. Several times until he is satisfied. When he is done he moans and settles down, tucking the unopened bag of pale powder into his nearest neighbour's pocket as he does so.

Sherlock slumps, his eyes closing to slits, and prepares himself to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having had a rather dull adolescence, I don't know the first thing about drugs and drug use and I specifically do not know the first thing about drug dens in Cairo. Google is only helpful to a point. I apologise for any and all inconsistencies and outright fabrications.


	5. Ramses Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no claims as to the bribe-ability of Cairo's hotel employees.

The hours pass. The glow of daylight from around the tented windows slowly filter away until the house is in almost complete darkness. There have been few changes in the figures on the mattresses and floor. One man left sometime ago, a Turk who is running from a burglary charge, but he has been replaced by a Coptic priest and a Dom, stumbling in on unsteady feet, eyes red and hands shaking.

When the light has gone, Sherlock pulls himself stiffly to his feet. He weaves his way carefully among the prone bodies and steps back into the second room. The man whom he had bought from is still there, dozing in a dream state along the wall. Beside him, a tattered rug hangs against the wall.

Still stumbling, Sherlock steps over the man and pushes the rug aside. A doorway gapes, leading into a small back room and he sees the dim outline of stairs to his immediate right. He follows them up, letting the rug drop back into place behind him.

It's almost pitch black on the first level of the house. The windows are covered in the same method used on the ground level but they're smaller and let in less natural light through their tears and tattered corners. After a careful moment of concentration, however, he sees the outline of brighter darkness leaking in through the edges of an ill-fitted trap door in the ceiling and he aims for it, shuffling carefully in case of debris but still manages to stub his foot on the steep wooden ladder at its base. He climbs carefully up, pressing on the light-lined square above him. Like all these houses, an alternative exit is valuable and it swings easily outwards and Sherlock passes up into the Cairene night.

The roofs of Cairo are a series of terraces, stretching on as far as he can see in the dim light of the early evening. In a country where rain is only a rare event, the roof level of a house is an extra room. Here in the poverty-stricken back streets of Medieval Cairo, they are a series of stepping stones strewn with debris and strung with laundry, their low walls crumbling with age and neglect. Keeping himself as low as possible, Sherlock passes from one roof to another. He grabs a pair of tattered jeans and a black collared shirt that looks to have been purchased ten years and four owners ago from a sagging line and crouching behind the low wall he clumsily changes his clothes. The jeans are too short but they'll do until he finds better. He bundles the brown gallibaya and the cotton pants into a ball and shoves them in a corner, then continues his way along the rooftops, slithering over partitions on his belly like a snake. When he reaches the end, he thrusts his head slowly over the edge of the roof, but the streets are deserted so he lowers himself into the road. Swinging from the tips of his fingers Sherlock remembers the last time he had swung from roof top to roof top, John at his heels, a dwarf with a blow gun and a poisoned dart taking aim from only yards away.

He banishes the memory with a shake of his head and lands with a soft scuffle in the road.

For the first time in days there is no one watching him and he feels the sudden relief of it like a physical weight being shifted from his back. He smile and flexes, straightening shoulders that have been unconsciously hunched for four days and with a last glance around he ducks his head and strides down the narrow street.

The back streets of Cairo are dark except for the anxious lighting that escapes the crumbling houses. He avoids the tourist-inhabited areas of the Medieval quarter, skirting the squares and striding through back streets and alleys like he belongs there. There is no one following him but he has to resist the urge to start running.

He can feel the Cairene air come alive as the darker half of the world begins to wake. He meets people around corners and in the narrow spaces of the city but they all belong to the same world as he does and no one stops him, he meets nobody's eye. If there is anywhere in Cairo that he is safe from scrutiny it is here and now.

It takes him two hours, but eventually he finds himself where he wants to be. Like a sudden wall, the bright civilising lights of Ramses Square explode in a cacophany of overbright life before his eyes.

Slipping into the tourist crowds he heads for Ramses Station where the wheel of humanity is in a constant hub of motion. He joins the press of travellers, slotting himself ahead of a German tourist family with two small girls who look at him with wide-eyed fascination.

It's easy once he's inside. He slides into place on a bench against the wall and glances around him, taking in the bronze and blue of the ornate ceiling and the inverted amber pyramid, reaching towards the ground and never touching. It's beautiful and he thinks of John and how much he would love to see it.

Sherlock loves train stations. Train stations and airports, where everybody is at their most exhausted and most savage, where protective walls are tightly secured around them even while the stark isolation of their surroundings paints with beautiful clarity every startling relief of character.

He makes sure not to linger too long in any one place, but he's lucky. At the third spot that he settles in he sees what he wants. A tall Canadian, broad-shouldered and light-haired. He's only an inch or two taller than Sherlock and with a narrow waist. He is looking at a paper in his hand, his mid-sized suitcase behind him. He is wearing a messenger bag that is slung over his shoulder and he has an arm hung protectively over it. Not a complete idiot, apparently, but close enough.

The man wanders a little further off, squinting at the boards above the ticket office before peering back at the paper in his hand, and Sherlock picks himself up and walks past him. He judges he has maybe forty-five seconds before the man realises his suitcase is gone.

With a confident stride he makes directly for the toilets off the concourse and there is still no alarm by the time the door swings shut behind him.

He takes the suitcase into the disabled toilet with him. There is a travel lock on it which he breaks easily, using the blade of the stolen knife for leverage. He unzips the case and digs out the toiletry bag, neatly packed along the edge. He finds soap, a razor, toothbrush, a comb. It's glorious. Leaving the case inside the stall, he goes to a sink and performs a basic wash, doing his best to scrub away the last four days of sweat and dust and with more joy than he's prepared to admit he slides the cheap store bought razor blade over his chin and upper lip. When he's finished he can almost recognise himself again in the mirror. He runs the comb through his hair. It's filthy but there's no help for that now. He goes back into the stall and rifles through the case until he finds the most nondescript of the man's business-casual wardrobe. He pulls the clothes on, a pair of loose, dark-coloured khakis and a blue button-up shirt with a generic jacket. Finished, he shoves the tattered jeans and black shirt into the case with the toiletries and zips the whole thing back up.

When he emerges from the toilets, suitcase wheeled behind him, he can see the man at the far end of the concourse with a pair of security guards. They are listening with patience and resignation as the man waves his arms in the air and shouts. He is loud enough that people are staring and Sherlock walks right past them, exiting the station the way he came.

He jumps into the first taxi in the rank and asks for Al-Tahrir Square with the most atrocious American accent he can muster. The driver offers him a friendly grin but barely registers his face as he pulls away from the kerb. The route he takes is circuitous but Sherlock says nothing, and fifteen minutes later he is deposited with his stolen suitcase in front of the City View Hotel.

The entrance is gaudy, but it's cheap enough that he can afford six nights on what he has left of the MI6 funds and as soon as he passes through the doorway he is relieved to find that the interior decor is somewhat more restrained. He goes directly to the front desk, a wood-panelled niche in the opposite wall, and retaining his American accent pays for two nights with a few crisp notes. When the man asks to see his passport he gives a pleasant nod and hands over two thousand Egyptian pound notes. The man smiles back and hands over a key. It's a room on the first floor and with a nod of cordial thanks he pulls the suitcase down the hall, passing two computer terminals on the way, then up the stairs and follows the room numbers until he finds his own.

As soon as the door closes behind him he collapses against it. He's exhausted and giddy. A bubble of hysterical laughter rises past his lips and he wonders what's wrong with him.

With a gathering of will he forces himself all the way into the room. He tosses the suitcase on the second bed, pulls shut the curtains over the wide glass balcony door, then unzips the case. He takes out the toiletries and stows them in the bathroom before he strips off his clothes, leaving them heaped on the floor.

He goes into the bathroom, picking at the edges of the bandages on his wrists. They peel away from his skin, leaving a sticky residue in their wake. The gauze is dotted with blood and oily from the antiseptic cream. The wounds themselves, dozens of deep jagged lines limned in fire, throb distantly in the background noise of his head. His ankles, when he bends down to remove the bandages there, look much the same and he presses at one particularly deep incision where the wound itself is small enough that the flesh has already closed over. It stings and aches at the same time and he presses again, harder, just to see how much he can make it hurt.

There is a small tub instead of the glass-walled shower stall he is used to in hotels, but there's a shower head installed in the outdated tile wall so he doesn't care. He turns the water on as hot as he can stand it and props himself up under the spray, aware that there are tears in his eyes as the scalding water sets the open wounds on fire. He ignores the pain until it eventually goes away and he stands there, losing track of time as the heat trickles slowly into his bones, warming something inside of him that he hadn't even realised had been cold for days. He thinks of John Watson as he stands there, propped against the wall, his eyes closed and his head hanging forward so that his chin presses against his chest. He thinks of callused hands and blue eyes and he find his own hands sliding against his chest, feeling the smoothness of his skin as dirt and sweat are washed away.

The shampoo is like a gift from some over-zealous god. It is disgustingly luxuriant and he doesn't even care that the artificial scent of its cheap chemicals will stay with him for days. It would remind him of John if he wasn't already thinking about him almost constantly. The soap is another gift and he slathers is over himself, slowly letting the suds fade on their own before he rinses them off, then finally shuts the water off with a sigh of regret.

The hotel towels are thin and cheap and he runs one vigorously through his hair before sopping up the worst of the water on his body. He uses the second one to carefully pat the skin dry at his ankles and wrists. He is exhausted and he doesn't know why considering the amount of sleep he had gotten the night before. He uses the glass beside the sink and drinks down three full glasses of water from the tap before filling it one more time and bringing it into the bedroom with him. He puts it on the bedside table and with an inward folding of muscle and joint he collapses in a heap on the covers.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow it becomes difficult. He is wondering what John is doing when he finally falls asleep.

 


	6. MJN Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also make no claims as to the bribe-ability of charter aircraft companies.

Sherlock comes to consciousness squinting against the brightness of the bathroom light. His eyes feel crusted and the lids swollen and he rolls himself onto his side with a groan, flopping over onto the floor with stiff, unsteady limbs.

Daylight hasn't begun to seep in through the curtains yet but he pushes them aside, standing naked in front of the balcony door and staring at the wide square below him, already an anthill of activity in the early morning.

He loves cities. He loves the round-the-clock wakefulness, the separated facets of its moods, the absolute switch of light and dark and how you never know its soul until you have seen it at all times, in all seasons, and in every humour. He watches Cairo moving below him, tourists and residents, the very rich and the sort of rich and the barely making it and the very poor. He watches them intersect and dance around each other, existing entirely separately in the same space. He loves cities, but Cairo does nothing except make him miss London a little bit more.

He shuffles into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and combing back his hair. He stares at himself in the mirror, debating on whether or not he can be bothered to shave and finally just gives his reflection a shrug and goes to pull on the same clothes he had on the night before, still in a pile on the floor.

His wrists and ankles are throbbing but he doesn't have any extra bandaging material. He debates leaving them uncovered but they're too noticeable, the skin red and torn, and even the relative softness of the cotton khakis is rubbing against his ankles in an uncomfortable way. He rummages in the suitcase and finds a worn cotton vest that looks clean. He tears it into strips, awkwardly wrapping the wounds, using his teeth to pull the ends together into knots.

He knows the safest place for him to be right now is in the hotel. There is no reason anyone would look for him here and the kind of people who would be searching are not the kind of people who would have any reason to enter a place like this. So he slips the crusted leather slippers onto his feet and straps the knife to his arm again, making sure it doesn't look too bulky under the sleeve of the blue button-up. He puts most of his remaining cash under the loops of the belt on his arm and puts only a small amount in his pocket. Having done that, he zips up the case and pushes it under the bed before leaving the room, locking the door behind him.

There is a different man at the front desk this morning. In broad American, Sherlock finds out where the breakfast room is (to the left and down the hall) and what the rates are for the computer terminals (free). He thanks the man with a slightly caustic civility, lamenting the idiocy of having brought his laptop and forgotten his power cord, and goes to find something to eat.

Breakfast is laid out in buffet style and Sherlock indulges in as much pastry as he can manage, drinking down several glasses of orange juice before wandering back out to the entrance and down the opposite hall where an alcove is carved out with two computers, their screens dark but their fans humming quietly. He sits at one, staring at the blank monitor for a full thirty seconds.

He has no clear idea of what he's going to do and it scares him a little. He's running out of money fast and there is no way to get more without throwing himself back on the dubious mercy of MI6. He needs to get home but there's a continent and a sea between him and John and no way for him to cross them. He has no false documents. The ones he was given by MI6 have long been left behind in some gutter and even if he had them still he wouldn't be able to use them without alerting the British government immediately as to his actions. And while he imagines he would be able to procure some more with relative ease, convincing ones take time, more time than he has. He's aware of every second that ticks by, every minute that stands between Sebastian Moran and John and how every minute is one minute less that he has to get between them. He needs to be on a plane right now but he has no idea how to accomplish that and as he sorts through his mind palace, picking up threads and following corridors and opening doors, he's agonisingly aware of how useless it all is, how useless he is, how after everything, after all of it, he has still managed to fail John Watson in every way that has ever mattered.

He groans out loud, letting his head fall forward into his hands and clutching at his hair in frustration. There must be something. He just has to find it.

He runs his hands through his hair and with a determined huff brings up his head and sets his shoulders. He's Sherlock Holmes. If a way exists he will discover it.

He moves the mouse and the screen comes to life, the wallpaper a scenic shot of the Pyramid of Giza with a low red sun behind it. He pulls up the browser and after pausing a moment to consider he begins to type in his search.

It takes several somewhat random tries before an idea begins to form. He is looking at private planes and considering the costs. Not everyone is ethical and the smaller charters are home to some interesting characters. A well-placed bribe often goes a long way and with regards to landing papers he can deal with that when it happens. By then he would already be on British soil and that was all that mattered. He would need more money but he's confident that with some careful pickpocketing he can steal enough to see him through this venture and with that in mind he starts to filter his searches a bit more carefully, smaller planes and family-owned companies, the fewer the employees the better. He examines photographs of the planes, of the people, discarding them one by one, setting some aside for further consideration. It's when he finds one called MJN Air that he knows he's found his match.

He looks at the cobbled together website, clearly the efforts of some half-witted cousin or nephew that no one knows what else to do with, at the patched and shaky plane, the worn seats and the photo of the crew. Ah. Not cousin or nephew but son, and Sherlock thinks he spots him in the picture wearing the ill-fitting steward's uniform, smiling with vacant enthusiasm at the camera. Beside him is an older woman, clearly his mother, who looks like she was told to smile and was caught mid-flash in an expression of outraged dignity. On her other side is the pilot – no, co-pilot, a tall, middle-aged man with a long-suffering smirk and a bored expression on his face.

Sherlock leans into the monitor and studies the photo, picking out the details. Idiot son, unhappily divorced woman with a bitter history, probably got the plane as part of the settlement, co-pilot on the disreputable side, a history of petty thievery and smuggling, but not completely unintelligent despite having been caught and fired on more than one occasion, also divorced. Three times? Four? Sherlock can't be sure.

It's this co-pilot that Sherlock is focused on because it's him that tells the tale of this little company so plainly. Desperation, bankruptcy, loyalty to the point of conspiracy. He wonders where the first pilot is when he spots the small notice at the bottom of the screen. _Hiring._ It's like a small explosion in his brain.

He creates a false email account with a false name taken from the top of his head, then sends a short but careful note to the address listed at the bottom.

_...thorough knowledge of a plane's working machinery..._

_...intimately familiar with the Regulation Handbook..._

_...well-versed in all theoretical and emergency guidelines..._

And then, to seal the deal,  _extremely unparticular with regards to salary._

None of it is a lie. Well, it won't be once he finds the necessary literature online and reads it. It won't take him very long to commit it all to memory and then it will just be a matter of translating theory to action. He can cite unfamiliarity with the particular aircraft at first and simply follow along with the co-pilot until he is sure he can do it with a modicum of believability. But it is that last bit that he is counting on to get him through. Unless he is very much mistaken, MJN Air can't afford to be picky.

 


	7. John

London is bright and cold. The sky through the bare branches is blue and John's breath hangs suspended before him with every exhalation.

St. James Square is quiet and empty. The houses lean in around him but he's protected and enclosed by the black iron fence, cocooning him at the centre. The noise of Piccadilly doesn't penetrate this far and he let's the stillness of this unguarded moment settle over him. There is no one watching him. There is no one to see.

He stares straight ahead at the empty bench directly across from him.

He's numb.

Six days.

_Six days._

Somewhere in John Watson's life he has made the decision to be here. At some point he has taken a turn that has brought him to this spot, right here. He has no idea what that decision was. When he looks back at what his life has been he sees nothing but a whirlwind, a series of unstoppable reactions, every moment flowing seamlessly into the next and he doesn't know where the edges are. He wants to find them, though, wants to pick at them and peel them back and see what they're hiding. He's not lost. John Watson knows exactly where he is. He just doesn't know how he's managed to get here.

_Six days._

He thinks of the disappearing smudge of white against an almost white sky, the roar of engines growing silent. He thinks of a black coat, the last corner of its fringe vanishing behind a sealed metal door. He thinks of a bare hand reaching for his across a wide chasm. He thinks of the black hole opening up and swallowing him and not being able to stop it, not even wanting to. He thinks of too-full lips and too-high cheek bones and blue scarves and coat collars that are always turned up and verdigris eyes staring at him far too intensely. He expects pain at these thoughts but instead there's nothing. Just...numb. John Watson thinks he might be broken.

The blue sky slips away, obscured first by scuttling clouds and then by rolling banks of dirty white before a grey wash has once more settled over London. A scattering of rain drops brush over him and one lands on the nape of his neck, making him shiver. He huddles in on himself but doesn't get up even as the scattering turns into a drizzle and soon after it's raining in earnest and he can feel the freezing water soaking through his jeans and running into his shoes.

He should leave. Mary's waiting. He said he'd be home by lunch but instead he's sitting in the rain in St. James Square. She's six months pregnant now, her belly swelling almost visibly every day. He tries to feel something about that but all the feeling is being drowned out by the cold now and he can't do anything but shiver as London trickles down his spine. He tips sideways, pulling his legs up onto the bench and curling them against him. He rests his head on the cold wooden seat and wonders how long he's going to stay here. This isn't like him. This isn't like John Watson. But he doesn't feel like John Watson so he supposes it's okay. Somehow Sherlock alive in the world and not with him is infinitely worse than Sherlock dead. Sherlock dead is a tragedy, a loss, a slow revealing crack down the centre of his being. Sherlock alive and not here is wrong. Just wrong. A fault in the earth. A tear in the universe. There's no other way to describe the shift that had occurred in the world six days ago.

Six days.

And tomorrow will be seven.

And then eight.

Nine.

Ten.

He stops. He will deal with that when he gets there. For now there is still day six.

He only becomes aware that he isn't alone anymore when two legs clad in black bespoke trousers appear in his line of vision. He blinks and glances up. Mycroft is standing five feet away, one hand in his pocket and his eyebrows raised in John's direction. His black umbrella is open above his head and he's alone.

John tries very hard to feel angry. He's been through this before, this rage at Mycroft's utter betrayal of his brother, but he's digging and he can't find the traction to hold on to anything. So instead he gives up and lets his eyes drift away from the man, trying to block him out.

“Get up, John.” Mycroft's voice is cold and entirely lacking in pity. John's glance flickers upwards again and he sees something like anger on Mycroft's face but he doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand anything and maybe he  _ should _ just get that on a t-shirt because it's apparent that his entire life has become a pattern of allowing himself to be lied to and allowing himself to believe it. He wonders when the last time was that he knew the truth about anything and on thinking that he remembers again that last look of Sherlock's,  _ “Sherlock is actually a girl's name,” _ and he swallows around something hard that has suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Don't make this more difficult than it has to be,” Mycroft says.

John sighs, aware that it's entirely due to Mycroft that he's not in jail right now or being vigorously questioned in a small basement room concerning his presence at Appledore when Sherlock shot a man through the head. He pushes himself upright and his vision blacks out for a moment, reminding him that he hasn't eaten in far too many hours. He waits till it clears before he rises to his feet, feeling the water seeping into all the last corners, his clothes pressing chill and uncomfortable against his flesh.

“I was hoping I'd never actually have to see you again,” John says.

A single eyebrow lowers on Mycroft's face. “If only we were both so lucky.”

There is a brief silence as they stare across at each other and John is aware of how he looks. Now that there's a witness again he feels utterly foolish and wonders what he had been thinking, sitting in the rain at the beginning of January. He thinks of Mary at home, six months pregnant and waiting for him for lunch and he feels some strange cross between guilt, remorse and disgust overtake him.

“What do you want, Mycroft? Mary's waiting for me.”

With a glance Mycroft pointedly takes in the empty square, the bench, and John himself, soaked and shivering before him. “Yes, mustn't be late, must we?”

John sighs and puts a hand over his eyes, pressing into them with his fingertips and rubbing. “What do you want, Mycroft.”

Mycroft is silent for a moment and his eyes narrow. It seems to John that he's attempting to work something out about him and failing.

“If you just ask me, you won't have to guess,” John says.

_ “Guess.” _ Mycroft's voice is laden with revulsion. “Is that what you think I do?”

John wants to kick himself. “God. Just. Leave it, would you? What do you want with me, Mycroft, because the last I checked we have no reason to keep seeing each other. Sherlock is gone, remember? He got on a bloody plane and flew away. You were there, weren't you? Or was it some clone you had made to do all the unimportant stuff that you just can't be bothered with.”

Mycroft says nothing but his nostrils momentarily flare and John can see how angry he is which is an achievement in itself. He mentally gives himself a gold star.  _ Making Mycroft angry: Check. _

The expression is gone in an instant and Mycroft's cold facade has returned. He stares at John over his nose and narrows his eyes. “Do you remember how we met, John?”

“You kidnapped me, if memory serves.”

“And do you remember how that was achieved?”

John's eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw, wondering where all this is going. He can feel himself getting impatient. “You followed me in your creepy black car.”

“No, John. Do you remember how that was achieved.” There is a world of patience in his voice.

John opens his mouth to make a scathing retort when he stops himself.  _ Just play along, _ he tells himself.  _ The sooner this is done the sooner you never have to see Mycroft ever again. _

“There were the phones that kept ringing. And the cameras. The CCTV.”

Mycroft looks impressed and John abruptly remembers exactly what it is about the Holmes brothers that constantly makes him want to punch them in the face.

“Very good, Doctor Watson. Now if you could just--” He points and John's eyes follow, settling on a camera. It is pointing at the ground.

Mycroft gestures again and this time John follows it to see a camera with its lens nearly flush against the wall it's mounted on.

He begins to feel a chill that has nothing to do with the rain.

“Is this about Appledore?” he asks.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “As usual, you have come to the entirely wrong conclusion.”

“Then what conclusion am I supposed to come to?”

“This is about Sherlock, as it will always be about Sherlock when it comes to you and me. Really, John, do I even need to say this?”

The name whirls into his head and churns through his mind, tossing everything aside like a hurricane.

“I don't—” he stops. He's suddenly short of breath. “I don't understand,” he finally says.

“Don't you?” The tone is ominous.

“I swear--” he stops again. His voice is cracking and he can feel the edges beginning to peel away, giving him a glimpse of something and he pushes it away. Not now. Not in front of Mycroft. God, not now, please.

Mycroft seems to have realised that something is wrong because he's watching John closely now and some of the coldness has left his face, replaced by curiosity. “Please, continue, Doctor. I find myself intensely interested in what you are about to say.” It is low and threatening.

“I swear to you, Mycroft. If this is a trick. If this is another little joke between you two. Let's see how stupid John really is.  _ Let's see if we can fool him twice. _ If I turn around and see him standing there with a bloody moustache on his face and a bottle of fucking wine in his hand I'm going to kill both of you. Do you understand? I'm going to kill you both. And don't think I'm joking. Because I have never been more serious in my life, do you understand that?”

John is panting now, his chest heaving in and out and he doesn't even care that he's just threatened the life of one of the most influential people in Britain and that Mycroft is staring at him like he's gone mad. He most likely has anyway or else he very soon will. He can't remember when he's felt so out of control of his own actions. This is the opposite of what grief had done to him that first time, those two years of Hell where he fell asleep every night in silence and woke up with the sound of violin music still echoing from his dreams and not knowing whether or not it was real. He's crumbling, he's falling into himself and he just doesn't care. He just wants to fall.

“John, I need you to understand that my brother never intended to hurt you.” Mycroft is talking again and John can't even believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Comfort? Sympathy? Definitely gone mad, then.

“What? Who never--”

“My brother was inordinately fond of you, John. Please try to remember that. Because that's why I'm here.”

“Oh God. Oh my God.” John can feel the world coming up to meet him and he doesn't even realise he's fainted until he blinks to find Mycroft kneeling on the ground beside him, his pale thin hands slapping lightly at his face.

“Jesus Christ,” John says.

Mycroft looks uncertain. “Are you hallucinating?”

“He's dead. Jesus Christ. He's dead. You're here to tell me he's dead. Oh God. Oh God. No no no no no no no.” He's shaking his head and his hands are gripped tightly in his hair, tugging. There is nothing even remotely resembling control in his actions anymore as he sits on the ground with his knees against his chest and Mycroft hovering over him with a look of concerned horror on his face. He can feel his own face collapsing and he doesn't think he can breathe.

“John! John, for God's sake! Listen to me! He's not dead. Sherlock isn't dead.”

It takes almost a minute but when the words penetrate John can hardly believe them, and then he does and he realises where he is, covered now in mud and Mycroft kneeling in the rain beside him. It's like another universe, one in which he's someone else and Mycroft is someone else, and it's all just a little too much. Everything is too much. He needs to get out, he needs to leave, but Mary's waiting for him at home and she's six months pregnant and there's nothing he can do, just like there was nothing he could do six days ago when Sherlock shook his hand goodbye. He had thought he could be angry then and he had struggled so desperately to hold onto that even as that last flicker of black disappeared into the plane.

“John, listen. This is important.”

“God. Important. Yes, okay. Okay, I'm listening. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh Jesus.”

“Sherlock disappeared. The agents who were tracking him lost him when he went into a drug den in Cairo.”

“Cairo.” John is on his feet in a heartbeat and walking towards the park gate. He doesn't even know what he's doing, only that Sherlock is in Cairo and doing heroin again cut with God only knows what and here he is pining like a child who's lost his favourite toy.

A hand grabs his arm and he almost hits Mycroft for stopping him, but rationality has returned with the brief restraint and he grits his teeth and shudders.

“Why is he in drug dens, Mycroft. I thought he was taking down a terrorist cell or something in Eastern Europe.”

“Plans change. And Sherlock has never been the most cooperative of field agents.”

John takes a deep breath, fighting for some semblance of himself. The numbness has gone, its stifling shell cracked and damaged, but it doesn't make it better. All it's done is make him feel desperate and anxious, as if there's something vitally important he's supposed to be doing but he just can't remember what.

“Okay. Okay. Tell me what you need me to do. You came looking for me and you moved the cameras so you don't want people to know that we're meeting. So tell me. What do you need me to do.”

Mycroft looks grudgingly impressed but the expression is gone in a moment. “There's nothing you can do, John. Sherlock murdered a man in front of a score of witnesses. An important, influential, dangerous man. He is never coming back, John.”

Frustration is grinding at John. “Then why come to me? Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“Because I think he might try to come back anyway, and if he does there is only one person in this world that he will try and contact.”

“Me.”

“You.”

“And you think, what? I'll just sell out my best friend because you asked me nicely?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. It's small and plain and cheap looking and it's in a clear plastic bag with a charger coiled around it. He holds it out to John and John takes it, the plastic slipping against his numb fingers, his eyes not leaving Mycroft's.

“Disposable. Untraceable.” Mycroft says. “No one has that number.”

“And again, you want me to do what?”

“My brother needs you, John. Help him.”

“If no one has this number then how will he know how to contact me?”

“Just worry about what you're going to do when it rings, Doctor Watson.”

“Mycroft. Jesus Christ. This is--”

“Yes, John?”

John takes a breath. He can't even believe he's going to say this. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. I suggest you go home now. Mary's waiting.”

“Mary.”

“Best if you don't mention this little chat to her.”

“No. No, I wasn't. I wasn't going to.” He's staring at the phone in his hand. The clear plastic bag is pebbled with rain and streaked with mud from his fingers. It's not switched on and he suddenly feels an urgent need to get somewhere dry so he can do that. He looks up to say something but Mycroft is gone. John can see his umbrella vanishing through the park gate.

It takes a long time to find a cab that will take him. He's soaked through and mud-covered, but finally a driver takes pity on him and when he's dropped in front of his door half an hour later he gives every cent he has in his pocket to the man. He realises he hasn't stopped handling the phone since Mycroft gave it to him and he slips it reluctantly into the pocket of his coat.

He checks himself as he goes to unlock the front door of the building, Sherlock's words burning in his head.  _ “I was afraid you'd, you know...let the cat out of the bag.” _ He can feel a desperate sort of joy bubbling up through him and tamps it down with a brutal thrust, and when he feels calm enough only then does he unlock the door and drag his numb feet up the stairs to their flat, where Mary is waiting, six months pregnant and expecting him for lunch.

He opens the door to the flat and there she is, sitting on the sofa, her hands clutched around a book that she clearly hasn't been reading. Her eyes are wide and she is tense all over and he realises that she didn't think he would come home. The smile she gives him is brittle and far too wide, her eyes stark with relief. Then she takes in his appearance and concern floods her features and she is on her feet.

“John! My God, what happened to you?”

“Nothing. I was in Green Park and the path was slippery. I fell. It's nothing.”

She's tutting over him, her face a study in sympathy, and she reaches to his shoulders to help peel off his dripping coat when he flinches back, recoiling from her, and he sees the hurt that flashes over her face. It's gone again in an instant, replaced by the brittle too-wide smile from before, and then she's backing away, hobbling towards the bathroom with her belly standing out before her like an exclamation point or a reminder.

“I'll run the bath for you,” she says lightly and goes into the bathroom where he knows she will turn on the water for him before she starts to cry, rinsing her face off afterwards to try and hide it. But he'll know, and she'll know that he knows, because this is what they've been doing almost a week now and it almost feels like routine.

He slowly strips himself on the kitchen tiles, gathering his ruined clothing in a pile while he waits for Mary to come out of the bathroom.

 

 

 


	8. Martin Crieff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of links for anyone who's interested.
> 
> The City View Hotel in Cairo actually exists! They don't have its layout online so I'm making that up for the most part, but if you want some idea of the visuals, here it is:   
> http://city-view.cairohotelsegypt.net/
> 
> Also, any and all information on GERTI I'm stealing directly from this LJ entry here:   
> http://cabin-pressure.livejournal.com/95433.html  
> You can see in the comments attached to the entry where John Finnemore is quoted on the exact make. Lockheed-McDonnell doesn't actually exist but the entry works on trying to find a comparable model for the poor people like me who wouldn't know the first thing about what sort of plane GERTI would be because fandom is amazing like that.

The reply comes seven hours later. Sherlock sits at the terminal, smirking at the screen as he reads the the single email sitting in the inbox of his fake account.

 

_Mr. Crieff,_

_Thank you for your response. What is your location? Please have flight records and CV available upon our request._

_-Carolyn Knapp-Shappey_

_Owner, MJN Air_

 

His head is buzzing with new information. Velocity, wind speed, resistance, emergency flight control...he's packed it all into a large room at the front of his mind, organised and serialised and archived. Boxes and maps and posters line the walls, file folders and diagrams. It's all there, waiting to be utilised. He is eager to test this new information. The plane itself is some ancient model of a Lockheed-McDonnell, worthless on any market, with an analogue control that gives Sherlock a moment's pause of trepidation. Only a moment, however. He manages to dig up some archived online files of an '87 Dassault Falcon, the closest he can find to the long defunct Lockheed-McDonnell, and spends an hour and a half memorising and analysing its controls.

He sends a quick email off to Carolyn Knapp-Shappey with the information that he's in Cairo and ten minutes later she sends to ask if he's available at two the next afternoon.

They fire a few emails back and forth and a meeting spot is arranged. Sherlock grins cat-like at the monitor as he archives the final email before logging out. He dedicates two more hours to research and memorisation, ensuring that everything is organised and available in his mind, then automatically deletes the browser history and rises from his seat, stiff and cracking at his joints. He stretches and glances at the clock in the corner of the screen to see that it's eight in the evening. He's not hungry but he knows he should eat.

He wanders back to the front desk and finds the same man there from when he had checked in the night before. Unlike the night before, Sherlock takes a moment to look him over closely. He sees a straight back, callused fingers. There are dark circles under his eyes but he is relaxed and the lines around his mouth and eyes tells tales of wide grins and years of squinting in sunlight. He's wearing a wedding ring and his polyester uniform is almost obsessively neat. The man gives no sign of recognising Sherlock until he actually steps up to the counter, another thousand pound note slid onto the desk under the palm of his hand.

The man – his name is Nasir - gives Sherlock a bland smile and the note disappears. Sherlock tells him what he needs. Nasir nods easily, giving no sign that Sherlock is anything but another guest enquiring about check-out times, and Sherlock leaves him with another note before sauntering off to the hotel restaurant for something to eat.

He doesn't pay attention to what he orders, pointing at something at the menu when the waiter comes by. He sits back, his fingers steepled at his lips, running through his mind palace, picking up loose threads and tucking in corners. When he is next aware, there is a plate of chicken and what might be eggplant before him. He picks at the chicken for maybe half an hour before tossing a bill onto the table and heading back upstairs to his room.

He passes the time with a ridiculous paperback that the Canadian man had tucked into the bottom of the suitcase. Something about a circus and a magician. It's not until after eleven that there's a knock at his door and Sherlock opens it to find Nasir, still in uniform and carrying a bulging plastic bag. The concierge quirks an eyebrows and he looks amused as Sherlock moves aside, letting the man into the room before closing the door.

“Any problems?” Sherlock asks as Nasir empties the contents of the bag onto the second bed, spilling out clothes, a pair of sharp, narrow scissors and hair dye, among other things.

“None,” Nasir says. His English is good but strongly accented.

Sherlock nods and leads the way to the bathroom where he strips off his shirt and turns the shower on, ducking his head under the spray until his hair is sopping. He towels it off and runs the comb through it before straddling the closed toilet seat, presenting his back to Nasir, who is waiting for him with the scissors in his hands.

“You trust me to do this?” the Egyptian asks, amusement and scepticism colouring his voice.

“I can't very well do it myself,” Sherlock snipes and gestures impatiently to his hair.

It's a lengthy procedure, due mainly to Nasir's inexperience, but finally he manages a result that has Sherlock grimacing in resigned approval. They sweep up the dark curls from the tile floor and Nasir holds out a plastic bag for Sherlock to dump them in. The concierge is still looking amused and Sherlock hands him four more thousand pound notes and the man, with a slight widening of his eyes, nods a grateful thanks before taking the hair clippings and leaving.

It's after midnight now but Sherlock's not tired. There is hair bleach as well as a ginger dye, a natural shade and Sherlock grudgingly approves the choice. By the time he is finished it's after three and he is dizzy with the smell of the chemicals in the little bathroom. He opens the balcony door, steps out into the Cairene night and inhales deeply, the city scent of too many people and not enough space. Petrol and smoke, sweat and dust, garbage and rot and the cold smell of the Nile nearby. The night is beautifully cool and the lights are bright here in the city centre, turning the sky into a flat black canvas above him. He breathes deeply, clearing the fumes from his head.

He leaves the balcony open, letting the night wash the chemicals from the room and switches off all the lights before lying on his back on the bed. He is thinking about tomorrow, cementing Martin Crieff into his mind, but when he falls asleep it is to John's face, written with surprise.


	9. First Officer Douglas Richardson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws it at you and runs away*

At two in the afternoon Cairo airport is a buzzing hive of activity. In Terminal Three, Sherlock sits primly in the English Lounge. He is twiddling his fingers in his lap, straight-backed and tense.

Martin Crieff is cemented in his mind, prim self-possession and an expression of eager anxiety overlaid with studied self-importance. He is wearing polyester slacks and a white dress shirt with the store-bought fold lines still apparent. Around his neck is a cheap spotted tie and his hair, the curls shorn and dyed a subtle shade of ginger, is slicked back against his head. He sits up straight, his lips slightly pursed, his eyes wide and his chin high and he glances nervously around the airport.

At ten minutes past two he spots an older woman coming towards him and immediately recognises her from the photo on the website. She's short, comfortably plump, with white hair and looks as though she should be someone's grandmother, but Sherlock pauses at her shrewd eyes and the straight-backed, somewhat wry dignity with which she holds herself. She's not used to failing, except perhaps in marriage. She should be desperate, given the state of her plane, but she doesn't look desperate.

He stands, shifts his feet in a restless manner and sends an uncertain wave in her direction. She strides up to him without hesitation and gives his hand a brisk shake before she seats herself without a word. She looks at him critically, taking in the cheap clothes and the bad tie, and Sherlock keeps his expression anxiously pleasing, nervously perching himself on the edge of the sofa and not quite meeting her eyes.

“You're not quite what I expected,” she finally says and her voice is severe. Sherlock gets the feeling that this is an unvarying tone for her, but he manages to simultaneously wilt and straighten under the implied criticism.

“Sorry,” he purposely frames it as an apologetic question. “Er. What were you looking for?”

“A pilot,” she says shortly. “You're lucky we were already coming here or I'd be tempted to be angry.”

She stands up to go and Sherlock feels a genuine flash of desperation. What did he do wrong? What were pilots supposed to look like? Did they have special tattoos, a secret handshake? What did he miss? He's frightened and he's not used to being frightened.

“Wait,” he says, and he realises as he says it that there's nothing of Martin Crieff in his tone. She pauses, looks at him.

“Wait. Please sit.”

“I'm a very busy woman, Mr. Crieff.”

“Yes, okay. I've never flown. But I know everything. I can do this. You won't even have to pay me.”

She raises an eyebrow, her face creasing into a semblance of interest and he knows this is her pressure point. It's always about money and she can't afford not to listen right now.

In spite of that, Sherlock thinks she's going to turn around and walk away anyway, but even as he can see her beginning to waver a man appears. Sherlock glances at him and recognises the older man from the photograph. Not the idiot son but the other one, the First Officer with the sticky fingers and the smuggling habit. He is tall, as tall as Sherlock, with grey streaked hair and bored, intelligent eyes. The man is staring at him, his eyes narrowed and there is an odd tenseness to his expression. Sherlock feels a jolt of panic in his stomach. How much has he let his mask slip?

He clears his throat and straightens, glancing downwards as he tugs at the creases in his shirt in order to shield him eyes and scrape together the last remnants of Martin Crieff from the lines of his face. When he looks up, the man is still staring at him but Carolyn Knapp-Shappey is looking at the First Officer now, annoyance in her expression.

“Douglas, where's Arthur?”

“At the bar. Apparently there's pineapple juice,” Douglas Richardson says and his tone is a lazy drawl. He hasn't taken his eyes off Sherlock once and there is still that half-bemused look on his face that is making Sherlock feel distinctly nervous. “I saw you interviewing out new pilot here and just couldn't resist.” He holds out a hand to Sherlock, a corner of his lips raised in a thoughtful smirk. “Douglas Richardson, First Officer. How do you do.”

Sherlock hesitates minutely before taking the offered hand and shaking it. “Martin Crieff. Hello.”

“He's not our new pilot,” Carolyn snaps. “He's not a pilot at all.”

“Oh?” Douglas says, his tone one of exaggerated surprise. He releases Sherlock's hand and settles himself on a chair. His movements, like his voice, are the studied embodiment of the bored British drawl. Sherlock looks at Carolyn, who is watching Douglas with an expression torn between outrage and suspicion.

“He doesn't have any paper work. You saw his email. I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt since we were coming here anyway, but I can sniff a pilot from twenty meters. This man's never been on a flight deck in his life.”

“Once,” Sherlock interjects. “Someone died.”

Two pairs of eyes are settled sharply onto his face.

“How comforting,” Carolyn snipes.

“Sit down, Carolyn,” Douglas says. He hasn't looked at her once yet, his eyes glued to Sherlock's face. “It might be interesting to see what the man has to say before we write him off completely. How much were you asking for salary?”

Sherlock is watching the First Officer. This is his way in, he knows. This is how it's going to work.

“Anything. Nothing,” he says. He is overeager he knows but it's okay. It's not a bad thing to let them see his desperation at this point.

Carolyn is still standing but she is watching him closely and some of her outrage has been redirected towards subtle interest.

“Why do you want this job?” Douglas queries with honest curiosity, and without taking his eyes off Sherlock: “Carolyn, do sit down.”

Sherlock debates for a moment before deciding that at this point he has nothing to lose. If this doesn't work he has no choice but to throw himself back onto the mercy of MI6, plead again for John Watson until someone, anyone listens to him. He's running out of options and he knows it and he sees enough of himself in Douglas Richardson to understand where this man's weaknesses lie. The man is bored and Sherlock knows that look in the First Officer's eyes, that look of a junkie having finally found a fix.

Sherlock waits for Carolyn to sit and notices with some interest that she does in fact do so. This is her company but he remembers his first impression when he looked at the photograph of these people on their website: loyalty to the point of conspiracy. He wonders how quickly the operation would crumble should any one of them be removed from the picture.

They're both looking at him now, waiting for him to speak, and he wonders where to begin, how to go about this. So he thinks of John and all the things John has taught him over the years.

“Please,” he says. He can feel Martin Crieff slipping away. He doesn't quite know who it is he's supposed to be right now, but he's thinks of John and trusts him.

“Please,” he repeats and he's aware of the desperation in his voice and his face. “I need to get home. You have to help me. It's important.”

“Important,” Carolyn scoffs. “Did you think you could just step onto the control deck and no one would think to question you?”

“I know it was stupid. I'm stupid. I know. But I don't have a choice. You need to help me.”

Carolyn opens her mouth but Douglas speaks first.

“Why do you need to get home, exactly?”

“Someone's in danger. A friend. A good friend. A great deal of danger.”

“What sort of danger?”

“He's going to be killed.”

Carolyn snorts. “This isn't a spy movie, Mr. Crieff.”

“No, it's not. I'm not making this up, please. You have to believe me. I can't tell you exactly what's happening but if I don't get home, Jo--someone is going to die and it's going to be my fault.”

“How very dramatic.” She sounds bored and disdainful and Sherlock is half standing without quite knowing how.

“Don't you _dare_ make this into a joke,” he snarls.

He is breathing hard, aware that they're both staring at him now. Martin Crieff is wholly gone and whoever he was pretending to be before has vanished. He knows he's standing barefaced in an international airport and he feels a rush of panic. He slumps back onto the sofa, reassembling his features, knowing that other people are staring now.

“Listen,” he says. “I know you need money. I can get you money. I don't have any right now, or not much anyway, but I can get you some. My brother, he has a great deal of influence and I can make sure he pays you whatever you want, but I need to get home first. I need to get back to London.” He can hardly believe what he's saying, how much he's begging. He thinks of being chained up and beaten with a pipe in Serbia. He thinks of Moran's chili-coated razor blades setting fires under his skin. None of that matters now, though. All he can think of is John. John. And Moran getting ever closer.

“If your brother has so much influence and money why not ask him for help?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “It's complicated.”

“So is transporting fake pilots.”

“I can help, though. Just put me in uniform and give me a hat, no one has to know. Just get me to England. Please. There is nothing I won't do to make this happen. Anything you want. Please, help me.”

There is a silence. Douglas is still staring at him, a look of almost gleeful calculation on his face. Carolyn is clearly considering. He thinks his outburst must have done something to change her mind because both disdain and outrage have left her face. She's not convinced, but he can see how she might eventually become so.

“You can't come as a pilot,” she says finally. “As a passenger I will consider it.”

He's shaking his head before she's even finished speaking. “I'm being looked for. I need the cover.”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble--” she is hissing at him, leaning forward in her seat, and he nods, holding out a placating hand, cutting her off.

“I do know. Yes, I know. But I don't know what else to do.”

“Carolyn, a word?”

Sherlock darts a glance to the First Officer who has finally stopped watching him and is now on his feet, waiting for Carolyn to acknowledge him. She does after a moment, giving him a terse look before rising and allowing him to lead her away. Sherlock watches them go, his stomach churning.

He is getting desperate. He considers blackmailing them. It wouldn't be difficult given Douglas Richardson's clearly dubious past. Alcoholic, smuggler, thief. A few educated guesses and Sherlock is sure he can catch the man out in some kind of bluff. But at the thought of blackmail Sherlock's mind jumps to Magnussen, to the feel of the gun's recoil and the thick smell of blood like copper, heavy and choking. He remembers that smell from St. Bart's, when Moriarty had spattered his brain across the rooftop, and after what happened ten days ago he doesn't think he'll ever get it out of his nose again. He thinks of John Watson's face, blank with shock, not at the violence itself but at the fact that it was Sherlock who committed it. He will never forget that face.

A throat clears and he blinks, disturbed at how easily Carolyn has apparently walked right up to him without him even noticing. He resolutely banishes John to the back of his mind.

“My First Officer informs me that it would be in our best interest to help you.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. Could it really be this easy? He resists the temptation to ask her if she's sure and simply stands, holding out a long hand and after a moment in which she's clearly considering changing her mind she reaches out and takes it. Her grip is firm and steady and she releases him after a heartbeat.

“Now,” she says, suddenly all business. “We need a photograph.”

He freezes. “What?”

She stops in the middle of turning away. “Douglas is perhaps not the most reliable of First Officers but he does have his uses and he seems to know a disturbing number of questionable people all over the world.”

He continues to look at her, unsure where's she's going with this and finally she gives a snort, turning around and walking away just as the First Officer returns, holding a digital camera in his left hand.

“Look at the camera, Mr. Crieff,” Douglas says, and the way he says the name convinces Sherlock that Douglas, at least, has a very good idea of who he is.

The flash goes off and Douglas looks at the display critically. “Well, they're not supposed to make one look attractive, I suppose.”

“Wait,” Sherlock says as the man begins to walk away.

Douglas looks at him, amused boredom on his face. When he sees Sherlock's expression, however, he turns back and comes up close until they are toe-to-toe, barely a foot apart.

“Carolyn isn't much of a people person,” the Douglas says, his voice low and conspiratorial. “She tends not to pay too much attention to faces. However, being a pilot in this particular company I find I have a great deal of time to read the papers.” The look he gives Sherlock is shrewd. “I hope you can deliver on that promise you made, Mr. Holmes. The promise of cold hard cash is about the only thing that will work with Carolyn. I, however, find that as long as I'm interested it doesn't require very much to maintain that interest. And no, I didn't mention your real name, but she's not stupid. She will probably realise on her own. For the moment, however, I suggest you stay quiet until we're well away from here.”

Sherlock is chewing on his top lip and staring at First Officer Doulgas Richardson. He doesn't quite know what his expression is doing, but he's aware of a certain amount of surprise. He's uncomfortably aware of how much he owes this man.

“Well. That's. Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. It's a long and dreary flight back to the mother country, Mr. Crieff. Arthur is going to steal a uniform - he's surprisingly adept at the strangest of things - and I'm going to find you a passport. Cairo is quite the place, you know. So many interesting people. Until then, I suggest you work on your camouflage. I don't suppose you have any cash on you?”

Sherlock doesn't even hesitate before handing over what is left of his supply. “Might I suggest that after you get that passport you hurry back?” Sherlock says softly.

Douglas raises an eyebrow. “That popular, are you?”

Sherlock grins, baring white teeth and the answering smile from Douglas is a glorious thing.

 


	10. Captain Crieff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Douglas and Sherlock conspiring together is something I never knew I wanted until I started to write this fic. I admit, I was more excited about this than I am about getting John and Sherlock back together. Is that wrong? That seems wrong.

Sherlock stares in the mirror and tries to find Martin Crieff in its reflection. Douglas is standing behind him, a slightly mocking lift to his brows. The First Officer is clearly amused and Sherlock feels a stab of annoyance.

“What?” he demands somewhat waspishly.

“Not a thing,” Douglas says. He reaches forward and straightens out a crease in Sherlock dark blue jacket. Sherlock grimaces and pulls away, fingering the four gold stripes on his cuffs.

“Where did you get this again?” Sherlock mutters. It's a relatively good fit, though the pads in the shoulders are annoying at best and the blue polyester tie is hideous. The light blue button up is cheap and chafes slightly and the waist on the trousers is nearly an inch too loose.

“I find with Arthur it's best not to ask too many questions.”

“Ah, yes. Arthur.”

“Like I said, he has his uses.”

“Clearly.”

“You do look rather a lot like you with that expression on your face.”

Sherlock's scowl deepens, glaring at Douglas's reflection behind him before concentrating on his own face again and trying to find Martin Crieff in its lines. This is normally so easy for him, the switch between personalities, the putting on and taking off of a mask. But Sherlock is distracted and impatient. Carolyn is apparently off in search of a client and the as of yet unknown Arthur is apparently guzzling pineapple juice by the carton. Douglas, however, hasn't left Sherlock's side since he returned after four hours spent in the back alleys of Cairo and had found Sherlock wandering around the countless souvenir shops, staring at shot glasses and cheap knick-knacks and trying to tamp down the inexplicable urge to buy something for John.

They had disappeared into a men's toilet together and Douglas had handed over a suspiciously wrapped bundle containing one airline captain's uniform and a French passport with his picture inside, all slicked back ginger hair and prim propriety. Sherlock had stared at that face, not recognising himself in it, silently congratulating himself at his own ability to disguise himself which naturally means that now he is left staring at his reflection in the mirror wearing Martin Crieff's clothes while Sherlock Holmes stares back at him with red hair. It is infuriating.

“Just...relax,” Douglas says.

“It's not a bloody colonoscopy, for God's sake.”

“Thank you for that mental picture.”

“Just...shut up.”

He is trying to find Martin in his head but all he can think about is whether or not John would like that miniature statue of the goddess Nut.

“What on earth are you concentrating so hard on?” Douglas demands after a few minutes of Sherlock glaring intently at himself in the mirror.

Sherlock gives vent to a mild curse and flings his back on his own reflection. “I'm concentrating on this damned uniform and that damned hat,” he gestures at the pilot's hat sitting on the counter, it's ridiculous white top and it's silly golden wings and its stupid blue stripe. He hates the pilot hat almost as much as he hates the ear hat. Except that he doesn't really hate the ear hat anymore. He thinks of John's slightly incredulous smile the last time he had put it on.

Douglas's voice breaks into his thoughts: “ _Now_ what are you thinking about?” The man sounds downright fascinated and Sherlock realises with some horror that he's grinning to himself like a lovesick girl. He twists the grin into a scowl.

“Shut up.”

“It's Doctor Watson, isn't it?”

Sherlock stares at the man. “What do you know about John?”

Something must have come out in his voice because Douglas looks at him somewhat askance. “The same way I know about you, obviously.”

“And how _did_ you know it was me?”

The First Officer sighs, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink next to Sherlock. They're not looking at each other anymore and for some reason Sherlock feels relieved at this.

“The thing about being a pilot for MJN Air is that one has a great deal of time to read the newspapers. You're quite the star, you know. And who could know about Sherlock Holmes and not know about John Watson? Anyway, you started to say his name earlier. It's true then that someone's trying to kill him?”

“Of course it's true. Why would I lie about that?”

“I don't know. I don't even understand what you're doing in Cairo. Last I heard you were enjoying a rather triumphant return back in London and now it turns out you've been exiled to the rather dubious civilisation of Egypt, resorting to bad hair cuts and hair dye and a rather appalling sense of fashion.”

“It was a disguise.”

“Well, it didn't work, did it?”

“It worked on everyone else.”

Sherlock can feel Douglas's eyes on him again and he resists the urge to turn and meet his gaze.

“It was when Carolyn was about to walk away and you half stood up. You looked...desperate. I knew it immediately. I admit, Martin Crieff fooled me, but you slipped up. What were you thinking about?”

It feels like there's something stuck in his throat and Sherlock swallows hard. “I have to get home,” he answers, because it's true.

Douglas is silent for a moment. “I see,” he says. “Well, I think I know your problem.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Ah yes, no sign of Martin Crieff there. Listen, you need to be able to get inside of Martin Crieff's head, right? Well, what's stopping you?”

“I can't _think.”_

“Because you're thinking about Doctor Watson instead, and while you're thinking about Doctor Watson Martin Crieff doesn't have room to move. So you need to stop thinking about Doctor Watson. Clearly.”

Sherlock gives a snarl of frustration, flinging himself back around and glaring at the stubbornly _Sherlock_ reflection looking back at him. Douglas turns too and Sherlock meets his eye in the mirror.

“Who is Martin Crieff?” the First Officer prompts.

Sherlock almost screams. “This isn't bloody drama school,” he snaps.

“Ooh! I loved taking drama in school!”

Both Sherlock and Douglas jump and turn to face the man standing in the doorway. Twenty-nine and wearing a hideous red shirt and a black waistcoat made of something cheap and synthetic. He has brown hair cut into an unfortunate style and his face is inundated with a painful amount of enthusiastic cheer.

“Ah, Arthur,” Douglas drawls. “I was wondering if you might be visiting soon. How much pineapple juice have you had exactly?”

Arthur looks perplexed. “I wasn't really counting. Should I have been?”

“No, I'm not sure it would have done much good. Have you met our new captain yet?”

Arthur turns a wide-eyed gaze on Sherlock and Sherlock feels himself cringing a bit. The man is an imbecile and he smiles too much.

“Hello, new Skip,” Arthur says, reaching forward with a hand. “Douglas said you were tall and skinny. It took ages to try and find something that I thought would fit.” He looks with cheerful criticism at the captain's uniform and eventually comes back to Sherlock's face, looking pleased with himself.

The hand is still hanging in the air between them and Sherlock reluctantly reaches for it. It's grasped and shaken with violent enthusiasm and he hurriedly snatches it back. The happy idiot is already talking again.

“What were you talking about? Was it drama? Are we doing a play? I would love to do a play. I was in one once, did I ever tell you?”

“Happily, no,” Douglas sighs.

“Do you think mum would let us if we asked her?”

“Only if she really, really hates me.”

“What were you talking about then?”

“Our new skip here is just feeling a little home sick.”

Arthur's face turns down with pity and Sherlock forces his expression into one of homesickness. It's disturbingly easy. He just thinks of John.

“Oh, no. I was homesick once. Well, no I wasn't, actually. Mum is always with me, see, so it doesn't really matter if we're at home or not. Though once when I was little she and dad went away for a week. I put a wig on Piggy and pretended it was her, though, so it wasn't so bad.”

Sherlock finds himself staring at the younger man in mingled horror and impatience.

“Your...err...piggy?” says Douglas.

“Oh, yes. Mum gave him to me when I was a baby. He's a stuffed toy. A bear.”

“And you named it Piggy?”

“Mum named him when she gave him to me.” He pauses and looks thoughtful. “Though he was pink. And his tail was sort of curly. His nose was pretty big, too.”

There is silence.

“Anyway,” Arthur says cheerfully, easily dismissing the dubious ancestry of his childhood toy with a wave of his hand. “Mum says we're leaving soon. We have a client so we need to be back on the plane in an hour.”

They leave him in the toilet, purging himself of pineapple juice. The clothes that Sherlock wore to the airport are rolled up and at the bottom of the bin. The suitcase he has left behind at the hotel with instructions to Nasir to find a back alley to dump it in in a few days, though for some reason he has brought the book with him. It's still with him, tucked in the wide pocket of the jacket. His only thought is that maybe John hasn't read it yet.

At the thought of John, Sherlock finds himself drifting towards the gift shops again and he is aware of Douglas staring at him.

“I never would have taken you for a souvenir kind of man,” the First Officer says.

Sherlock thinks of a yellow smiley face on a sitting room wall and a useless pink phone tucked away in the of drawer of a desk two thousand miles away and he smiles to himself. He squints at the clear glass front of one of the stores and can see the shelf at the back, lined with miniature deities.

“Ah, a religious man!” Douglas mocks, seeing where is gaze is fixed.

“Do you still have any of the cash I gave you?”

Douglas's silence is a surprised one. “Really?” he asks.

Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the small blue woman with the wings of a vulture spread out from her straight back. “It's for John,” he says.

Douglas sighs but a moment later a bill is pressed into his waiting hand. Sherlock doesn't even look at him, simply walks into the store and makes a beeline to where the Goddess Nut kneels on display. He picks her up almost reverently and something in him settles. He pays for her without a word and goes back out to where Douglas is waiting, eyebrow raised at the small blue goddess in his hand.

“Feel better?” he asks.

Sherlock can feel his shoulders pulling back and his chin lifting. The hat is a settled weight on his head and he can feel his features shifting, rearranging themselves so that when he looks at Douglas again he can feel his mouth pull straight in a prim line and his eye brows raise fractionally on a clear forehead, widening his eyes almost imperceptibly. He is hyper aware of the four captain stripes on his sleeves. He looks at Douglas and something on the other man's face shifts, sliding from mockery into bewildered wonder and Sherlock's chin lifts a little bit more.

It's Martin Crieff's voice that answers, several tones higher with a light touch of fussy propriety in its accent. “Shut up, Douglas,” he says and the First Officer is stunned into silence for half a heartbeat before he throws back his head and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Wikipedia article on the Egyptian Goddess Nut. I leave you to your own conclusions.  
> http://simple.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nut_(goddess)


	11. GERTI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited. Bless Pilikia for help with the plane-y stuff. Anything and everything that remains horribly wrong is all my fault.

His heart is beating and he knows it's the only thing that's giving him away. He wonders if anyone can see it, the twitch of skin stretched too tightly against a pulsing vein, thrumming a rapid staccato under his flesh. But no, people don't look that closely at other people, not even the man at the gate who checks your passport before handing it back again.

Except, of course, for this man. This man who pauses as he stares at the photo and for a moment Sherlock can feel his heart stutter and pause. Is that possible? Can a heart stop beating like this, without a bullet having passed through it, without his liver bleeding slowly into the pulsated cavity of his ruined body?

The man at the gate (two children, both under five and at least one of them a girl, Muslim, silent supporter of El-Sisi, fingers dipped in a few unsavoury pies but nothing overtly criminal, minor smuggling and occasional bouts of neglecting to return a lost wallet or three) squints at the photo and Sherlock can see his eyes tracing the letters of the false name.

"Captain Martin Crieff? I do not know you," the man says, glancing at Sherlock's face and running an eye over his pilots uniform.

“Why should you know me," Sherlock says with a broad French accent, complete with a disdainful look down the ridge his nose. He cringes inwardly. He sounds Quebecois and he knows it, his nerves messing up his filing and playing havoc with his tongue. "I have new plane to fly. I am Captain Crieff," he gestures at the passport in the officer's hand. “Or do you not read?”

The passport officer merely smiles and narrows his eyes slightly. "You say are flying with MJN Air?"

Sherlock sighs impatiently. The man is holding the crew identification card in his hand with the false name and Martin Crieff's mincing frown staring back at him. “As you see.”

The man's eyes narrow impossibly further. “I know MJN Air very well.”

Sherlock's raises his chin even higher. He can feel the skin stretching against his neck and thinks of his pulse humming rapidly underneath it. “'Ow wonderful for you. You now let me through so that I do my job.”

The man gives a shrug. “I was not informed that they were hiring a new pilot.”

“I was not aware that such _ver insignificant_ is required to know of such matters.” His voice is getting higher and higher pitched and he congratulates himself on the frantic crackle of outrage that splits the highest note.

This man is starting to get tiresome. Sherlock knows the passport is a good one, far better than a man such as this would be able to spot, and for a lark the identity card is actually genuine, handed over to him by Carolyn herself who had glared fiercely but hadn't said a word while doing so. He suspects a past resentment in the man's reluctance to let him through and he wonders what it is that Douglas has done to him. Of course it's Douglas. Carolyn is still trying to maintain the outward appearance of professionalism and Arthur is the most inoffensive vegetable on the face of the planet, unless you count sheer idiocy as offensive, which of course Sherlock does but this man with his overt greed seems more the type to take advantage of someone like Arthur rather than antagonise him. It must be Douglas. The smuggling scenario fits too well. Sherlock Holmes would be able to get past this man easily enough but he's Martin Crieff right now, and though Martin is not precisely an idiot, he's certain not the type of man to start blackmailing people. Martin Crieff is the type of man to bluster through with a self-importance stemming entirely from an almost crippling sense of insecurity. Failing that? Find someone to tattle to. Namely the object of that resentment: Douglas.

He's about to deliver a parting shot before storming away to do just that when he feels a hand on his arm and he almost jumps out of his skin before he smells the particular brand of shampoo that he's already come to associate with the First Officer, something with citrus and cedarwood. It's a warm smell and he makes a mental note to ask Douglas what it is. He wonders if John would like it or if perhaps the doctor would prefer sandalwood, something warmer, sweeter.

At the thought he can feel his mask starting to slip and with an almost convulsive movement his hand tightens on the small carry-on bag that Douglas had handed him for veracity's sake. It is empty except for the paperback novel and the blue statue of Nut wrapped in one of Douglas's spare shirts for safety. He thinks of the statue and he can feel himself calming, his mind reshuffling itself back into the right order. He is back in Cairo and John is far away. But closer. Getting closer.

"He's with us, Awad.”

The man at the gate visibly flinches at Douglas's voice. The First Officer is at Sherlock's shoulder, his own passport held out in offer and his identity card hanging from a plain blue lanyard around his neck. The passport officer stares at the passport in Douglas's hand for a full three seconds before reaching out and grabbing it with his finger tips.

"MJN Air," the man mutters. "What a fortunate man you are, Captain Crieff."

He hands all the documentation back together, almost flinging the card and the passports at them, and Sherlock makes a point of fumbling slightly as he grabs his out of the air. Douglas catches his passport in a single smooth move. It's clear he's had practise with this.

 _"Merci,"_ Sherlock says stiffly, drawing his chin up and frowning at the man, who studiously ignores him and almost visibly wills them to keep moving. Sherlock feels Douglas's hand on his arm and he allows himself to be pushed along, following the corridor and down two flights of stairs until they reach a door to the runway where a golf cart waits. Sherlock slides in first and Douglas pushes in after him. There is a driver and he gives Sherlock a nod and Douglas a grin, glancing with age-long habit at the paper the First Officer shows him and they glide away from the terminal.

Surprisingly, the plane that awaits them looks less damaged than the one in the photograph though it's clearly the same machine. Sherlock wonders at the special sort of photography skills needed in order to accomplish that.

They climb out of the golf cart, Sherlock clutching his bag to his chest and their driver gives Douglas a cheeky wave as he glides away. Sherlock watches him go before turning back to Douglas, who is looking at the scrap heap of a Lockheed-McDonnell with wry affection on his caustic face.

"Captain Crieff," he says with a sweeping gesture. "Meet GERTI."

Sherlock stares at the plane, his face carefully blank as he takes in the patched and cobbled appearance. It's safe, he knows it is. These machines are rigorously tested before every take off, every nut and bolt checked, every scratch inspected. He's aware of this and yet can't help but look at Douglas with something like concern.

Douglas meets his eye with a smirk. “She's air worthy. For the most part.”

“How comforting,” Sherlock murmurs but doesn't hesitate to follow when Douglas leads the way onto the craft.

As with the outside appearance, the inside of the plane isn't nearly as patched and faded as the photographs made it out. There's no question it's old and of dubious design, but it's cared for and clearly loved. Like one of the crew, Sherlock thinks, looking at the seating that has clearly been re-purposed from a luxury private aircraft to a 16-seat passenger plane. Most certainly from a previous marriage. The original owner would have sold this plane before turning it to such a crass and undignified purpose.

There is a solid door at the front of the cabin and Douglas leads the way through the galley with it's microwave and small refrigerator, a tall locker and a crew area. It's a small space, only a few steps across, and past it is a second door. Douglas opens it and Sherlock sees the flight deck. It's tiny, really, crowded but efficient. Sherlock follows Douglas through and stares at the instrument panel. It is most definitely analogue, filled with knobs and dials and readings that Sherlock can name without pause after a day spent staring at similar diagrams. It's intimidating seeing it in real life, knowing that soon he'll have to actually use it all, but he can feel something jump in him in anticipation. He's never tried this before and on his own he never would, but he's not alone right now. There's not even any need to pretend.

Douglas climbs into the right hand seat so Sherlock takes the left, still staring at the instrument panel in front of him. He hears a snort from beside him and he looks over to see Douglas watching him.

“If you think I'm actually going to let you fly this thing--”

“My memory is exceptionally good.”

“Have you ever flown a plane before?”

Sherlock glares at him. “I read all about it. Using the grid for a Dassault Falcon, of course, since apparently the Lockheed-McDonnell is so ancient not even the internet remembers it.”

“You're not flying GERTI, Sherlock.”

“I'm Martin.”

“Martin's not flying GERTI, either.”

Sherlock glares at him some more but apparently Douglas is as immune to this as John is because he ignores the detective, focusing on the instrument panel and flicking switches until a low whine starts, quickly turning into a humble roar as the engines begin to fire and warm.

“In stowage, please,” Douglas says. He nods at the bag still clutched in Sherlock's lap.

“What?”

“Bag. Put it in stowage,” he nods at the closet-like metal cabinet behind Sherlock's seat. “We're already breaking enough laws, don't you think?”

Sherlock scowls at him but rises to his feet. He climbs out of the narrow space and opens the metal locker. There's a bag already in there, a tattered canvas thing that he's surprised Douglas would be seen with, though considering that the worn and scratched leather satchel he's currently carrying is also Douglas's he supposes he should have expected it.

Sherlock takes an exaggerated amount of care as he stows the precious cargo away. He can feel the hard edge of a vulture wing through the soft leather of the bag and the layers of cotton and wool that harbour it. He shuts the door with a quiet clang of metal and when he turns back to the front of the plane again it's to see another golf cart coming towards GERTI. He spots the white head of hair that is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey and the brown mop beside her which is her son. In the forward seat beside the driver is a stranger, a tall woman with the burnished skin of an Arab. Sherlock squints. Something about the way she holds her head seems familiar.

“Who is she?” Sherlock asks, trying to pick out her features, but she's too far away still and he can't clearly make them out.

Douglas shrugs. “Wife of some tycoon. He's in Exeter right now, of all places. God only knows why. Maybe he's a Harry Potter fan. She's flying over for a conjugal visit, I imagine.”

“What's her name?”

Something in Sherlock's tone tips Douglas off because he glances at him questioningly. “I don't remember,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

The golf cart has pulled up now and Sherlock is staring at the woman in the passenger seat. She is tall and elegant, long legs enclosed in billowing trousers and feet tucked into leather flat-soled slippers. She is wearing a blouse with a high cut neck and tightly fitted arms and Sherlock is staring at her face, at her straight posture and the elegant disdain. He almost laughs out loud.

It's Adeela Doud.


	12. Takeoff

"Sooo...not the wife of an oil tycoon?" Douglas says. He is looking at Sherlock as if he has lost his mind. Sherlock can feel the grin stretching his face and knows he looks manic at best.

"Not quite," Sherlock says. It's fine, he knows. There's no reason why she should ever see his face and he's confident enough in his abilities that she'll never recognise Martin Crieff's voice.

"Will she recognise you?"

"Likely. She's. Well. She's a bit. Well. She might be one of the people looking for me." He says that last in a rush and he can feel Douglas's uncertain gaze slide off of him to land on her, climbing now out of the golf cart with Carolyn while Arthur scrambles ahead of them.

"My God. Is it part of that Moriarty-Brook business? We should call the police."

Sherlock makes an awkward sound in the back of his throat. "Not a good idea."

"Someone must be looking for her!" Douglas protests and he already has one hand reaching towards the radio.

Sherlock grabs his wrist. Douglas stares at him.

"She is the police, Douglas."

Douglas gapes at him.

"Well. MI6. Actually."

The look on Douglas's face is one of undisguised horror.

Adeela Doud is on the plane by now. The golf cart is driving away and Sherlock watches it go with a feeling of trepidation. He should have found a way to stop it. Hijack it and make a run for it. Would it be fast enough? Probably not. Just go on foot, perhaps. It's not like he doesn't have experience in running. Except that there's military all over the airport, enormous machine guns slung over shoulders and rifles and hand guns ready to fire. This is not a peaceful country. He should know, it's one of the reasons he was sent here. These men are well versed in the concept of "shoot now, ask questions later." Sherlock wonders how far he would make it before he was stopped. He thinks of his blood running onto the tarmac, of bullets embedding themselves into flesh only barely healed from the last time. He can practically feel them already and he thinks of John, continents away and seas between them, utterly unprepared for the nuzzle of a gun at the back of his head. Mary or Moran? Which one of them is going to pull the trigger?

He thinks of Magnussen's brains spread across the terrace of Appledore. Something that had had to be done. He had explained to Mycroft, told him afterwards that Magnussen's vaults were a ruse, that the choice he'd made at Appledore hadn't been a choice at all. The plan had failed, Magnussen was extraneous, in his way only a powerless player but sitting on one of the larger strands of the spider web that Moriarty had created. It was Moran who was at the centre now but it was Magnussen who had perched between that centre and where Mary Morstan hung, a vibrating fly at the outer reaches of the net. Mycroft had understood that, but Sherlock still couldn't get the image of his brother's disappointed face out of his head. _“In front of everyone, Sherlock?”_ he had demanded and his voice had been so tired.

He thinks of Mary. Mary. Smiling at the airport, watching him walk away, knowing she had won and knowing that he knew that she had won. It will be her finger on the trigger when John wakes up in the middle of the night some time soon, cold metal pressed to his skull. Magnussen is gone, Moran will be testing loyalties at this point. He will need to know who he can trust and it was Mary after all who had failed to kill Sherlock, who had failed to report on his return, who had failed to kill John as a consequence of that return. The biggest question is, does she care more for her own safety or for John's? Because that's what it comes down to. Protect herself or protect John. She will no longer be able to do both and she will have to make that choice and Sherlock is terrified of what that choice will be. Mary. Mary will be the one to kill John. Sherlock knows that it is he who made that happen, he has no one to blame but himself. Mycroft won't care. John's value to Mycroft is defined entirely by his proximity to Sherlock and right now they are very, very far away from each other. Mary. He should have killed her. He was already being sent to his death, he had already accepted that he would never see John again. If he had asked, would Mycroft have done it? A discreet robbery in Whitechapel, a mugging gone wrong. Or an accident, a hit-and-run, no visible plate, the car stolen and then abandoned. There would have been ways. He could have figured it out.

Now he listens to the sounds of movement and the shifting of the small plane as the three people in the cabin settle themselves and the outside door is shut and sealed. He sees the lights on the instrument panel indicating that they are trapped now, locked inside together, and he can feel Douglas staring at him still from the other seat.

“Douglas--” he starts, but has to clear his throat because his voice sounds too uncertain even to his own ears. “Douglas--”

The door that separates the galley from the flight deck opens and Carolyn walks in. Douglas and Sherlock both jump guiltily and Carolyn stares at them suspiciously. She shuts the door behind her and glares at them.

“All cozy in here, Captain Crieff?” she bites off sardonically.

“Er. Yes. Quite.”

“How nice for you. Douglas, I'm assuming you're not actually going to let him touch anything.”

“Have no fear, Carolyn,” Douglas says. His voice has returned to its habitual drawl and Sherlock glances at his face to see an expression of lazy amusement on it. He is no longer looking at Sherlock, focusing on the instrument panel where he is inspecting gauges and fiddling with the controls. Sherlock recognises the over compensation and knows the First Officer is trying hard to avoid giving anything away to the hawk-eyed woman behind him. Even as it is she is staring at Douglas with an eyebrow high on her forehead.

“You do remember how to fly the plane, don't you?” she says sarcastically.

“If not, we always have the instruction manual taped to the back of the door,” Douglas returns easily, but he seems to have noticed her suspicion because he looks back at her, a look of questioning expectancy on his face and she gives a huff before vanishing back through the door. It closes behind her with a snap and Sherlock releases a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

“Douglas--”

“At least tell me we're not all going to get arrested and locked in a basement somewhere to be forgotten.”

Sherlock hesitates. Will they? God, he hopes not. But he knows that if it meant getting to John in time he wouldn't even pause before throwing GERTI and her entire crew into a concrete cubicle somewhere on the embankment. Having brought them to this point he would protect them with his own life, but John's life? It's not even a question. He doubts the choice will have to be made, however. Mycroft owes him for getting Magnussen out of his hair and something as easy as overlooking a single air carrier's slight adjustment to hiring protocol and handing over a hundred thousand quid as a thank you for carting his little brother across the world is a simple method of repayment.

“Oh my God,” Douglas moans, watching the indecision on Sherlock's face. “We're all going to be vanished by the government.”

Sherlock waves a careless hand in the air. “Unlikely. As long as she doesn't have reason to look too closely at my face.”

“And if she does?”

“Why would she? Safety regulations forbid passengers coming onto the flight deck.”

“Stop over in Chambery-Savoie. If you get off the plane--”

“Then I won't get off the plane.”

They're silent for a minute, both staring straight ahead at the empty apron on the other side of industrial glass.

“Okay,” says Douglas as if making a decision. “Okay,” he says again. He nods, more to himself than to Sherlock who watches him closely. “Okay.”

Douglas reaches for the radio again and this time Sherlock lets him.

“Tower. Golf-Tango-India requesting takeoff.”


	13. Johns of England

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no match for John Finnemore, unfortunately, when it comes to cleverly written dialogue.

The world is spinning away, opening up into a vast cavern of uneven blue. There is no ground, just the infinite expanse of gaping sky. Sherlock feels like they are hurtling towards space, falling recklessly into the trap of its maw. He is being pushed back into his seat and he knows that it is gravity fighting momentum, lift and thrust beating back against the odds, but for a moment he wonders if he will be able to hold, if he won't just pass back through the seat, hurtling past galley and cabin, press through the solid metal shell and hang hovering in the sky while the plane shoots spacewards without him, somewhere between ground and sky, impossibly trapped. He knows this is nonsense. Isn't entirely sure where this flight of fancy has come from, but he realises that no matter how many times he's been in a plane, peering out through the small port windows at a sea of clouds or mountain ranges turned toy-like and finite, peering landward, downward, he had not been prepared for the forced spectacle of soaring into a flat expanse of _nothing_.

It is overwhelming. Huge. Beyond huge. He doesn't have a word for it. He doesn't even have the concept of it. Nothing in his mind has ever prepared him for infinity or for the sight of it laid out stark and waiting before him. There isn't a cloud before him on which to pin his sight, to add some sense of depth or limit to the empty arc of blue. There is just space and it is terrifying.

Douglas is concentrating on the takeoff, his glance alternating between the instrument panel and the sky before him. The voice from the tower is crackling over the radio and Douglas is answering but to Sherlock the words are fuzzy and incomprehensible. His head feels like its pressing in on itself, the skin of his chest feels stretched and compressed all at once. There is a pulsing roar in his ears and he doesn't know if it's the engines of the plane or the deafening hum of his own circulating blood, pushed in endless loops through arteries suddenly too narrow too hold it all. He thinks he's having a heart attack.

The plane is climbing and the sky is changing, the cerulean stripe of a clear Egyptian evening vanishing beneath the metal nose and turning into the darker, deeper intensity of Prussian blue, the colour of oceans and deep lakes, but wider, smoother, deeper, bigger. So, so much bigger.

He thinks of Nut in the metal locker behind him, Goddess of the sky, overarching the earth, and he thinks of John, whose eyes are just that colour, the colour of sky turning into space, the colour of his sanity slipping slowly into infinity.

“Fifteen thousand feet,” he hears Douglas say. “Enjoying the view, Captain Crieff?”

“Oh my God,” Sherlock says, or thinks he says. The words echo oddly in his own ears making it sound like he's speaking under water.

The plane is still climbing, clawing its way through the atmosphere. Sherlock can feel the engines vibrating through his whole body and wonders how big a mistake this was, getting into this makeshift pretender of a plane, an over-ambitious heap of scrap metal and Sellotape.

_Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn._

The name is a litany running through his head. He realises he is saying it like a prayer and is thankful that no one can hear it.

“Twenty-five thousand feet,” Douglas says.

They are still climbing and all hint of cerulean is gone now, just midnight and infinity left before him. He knows how high planes fly. He has no problem with heights, with the stretch of empty air beneath him. It's the stretch of empty air above him that he's never realised he could have a problem with.

“Thirty-three thousand feet. Levelling now, Captain.”

Sherlock can feel the slow loss of pressure as the plane finds its equilibrium and slowly, infinity starts to reduce itself, contained by the top edge of the windscreen and the return of cerulean and the wide arc of the earth. It is far, far below and the brown desert is nearly invisible in the quick onslaught of a night that's already found and swallowed Cairo whole. The sun is gone, but the hint of its presence lies in the burning sweep of pale blue light that is stretched over the horizon, highlighting a part of the world that Sherlock will never see up close.

He can breathe again, the pressure lifted from his chest, the roaring of his own internal engines slowing and going silent. He realises his face is wet with sweat and he wants to vomit with relief. At that moment, the arc of the earth is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, blotting out infinity with its horizon.

“Oh my God,” he says again.

Douglas's hands are on the instrument panel, checking dials and flicking switches, and the loud roar of the engines have settled into the familiar drone that he's so used to hearing.

“Alright there, Captain?” Douglas asks, and there's smug amusement mixed in with the concern.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls from between clenched teeth.

He can see Douglas smirking out of the corner his eye, settling back into his seat with a sigh.

“Well, we've got about six hours and a thirty minutes before our stopover in France. So tell me. What's a day in the life of the famous Sherlock Holmes like? Guns blazing in darkened alleyways? Thrilling chases over rooftops? People trying to kill you from around every corner?”

Sherlock sends him a sideways glance out of narrowed eyes and makes a non-committal grunt. “Tea and Chinese food.”

“Really?”

Sherlock ignores him.

“Doesn't take much to be you, does it?”

“Don't be stupid.”

“You know,” Douglas drawls slowly. “What with all the aiding and abetting and the MI6 agent sitting back there waiting to send us all to a basement to be tortured and forgotten, you might try to be a bit more in-character.”

Sherlock glares at him.

“Okay, then. Tell me about the famous Bachelor-John-Watson. I admit, I read all the bits I could find on him after your little flight from the roof of the hospital, all those paps stalking him through the streets for weeks afterwards. Soldier, wasn't he? Lord, did it show, that stiff upper lip, that back straight as a pike. Completely fooled me. Thought for sure he was actually grieving. Even after my mother died I don't think I looked like that. Probably should have tipped me off, really. Just goes to show you can't trust the papers.”

Sherlock snorted. “John's a terrible actor.”

“Surely you sell him short. We can't all be genius detectives.”

“His face goes all wide and his right index finger starts to twitch. It's why I couldn't tell him.”

There is a silence that Sherlock probably wouldn't have noticed was he not aware of Douglas's eyes boring into him from mere feet away. He turns his head and meets the stunned gaze of the First Officer.

“What?” he snaps.

Douglas jumps slightly, as if rousing from a trance. “Nothing. Not a thing.” He turns away, settling back into his seat and for a while they are sitting in silence, the dark descending slowly as the sun slips further below the visible horizon to the left. It is a sliver of silver light, just enough to provide demarcation between earth and sky. Directly ahead of them and on their right, the world is a black hole and Sherlock wholly prefers it to the certainty of infinity they had been flying into before. He likes the dark. It is a shrouding and closely pressing thing. The total black of lightlessness holds no terror for him because in it he can imagine anything he wants. He can close his eyes and push his hand forward and imagine the door to 221B slowly opening before him...

“Not even a hint?” Douglas's voice is a grating, unwelcome irritation. He opens his eyes but the First Officer still isn't looking at him.

“I'm not talking about John anymore,” Sherlock says.

There is a click, almost imperceptible, and both Sherlock and Douglas jump guiltily as the door to the galley swings open and Arthur pushes through. He is carrying a tray with two cups and Sherlock smells the hint of something that might have been coffee in previous life.

“Good evening, Douglas! Good evening, Skip!”

“Evening, Arthur,” Douglas says. “Ah! Sustenance.”

“Just thought you chaps could use something .”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Sherlock says politely, taking the steaming mug. He tries not to sniff it and takes a small sip. It's disgusting, watery and bitter. He knows he'll drink it anyway.

“What were you playing then?” Arthur says. “Who's John and why don't you want to talk about him?”

It's Douglas who answers. “It's called 'Johns of England' and Captain Crieff here was merely expressing his opinion of John Cleese. Apparently, he's not a fan.”

Arthur is staring at Sherlock with the expression of someone who's puppy has just been kicked into the path of an oncoming bus.

“How can you not like John Cleese?” he demands. “He's brilliant!”

Sherlock stares at him, no idea what to say. Who the hell is John Cleese? John would know. He always does know who these inane and inconsequential idiots of the world are.

Douglas seems to be aware of the fact that Sherlock has frozen because he coughs harshly before saying “John Hannah,” he says. “Another of our fine thespians.”

“Ooh! Can I play?” Arthur says, forgetting about Sherlock in an instant. “Um, let's see...John F. Kennedy.”

“Ah yes, that infamous Englishman who was also the president of the United States.”

“I thought he was an actor. Wasn't he in something? I saw it on the telly, I swear I did.”

“Do you mean 'The Kennedys'?”

“Yeah, that was it!”

“In which John F. Kennedy is portrayed by an American. An American named Greg.”

“Isn't he British, though? Greg Kinnear. Surely I saw him in some play mum took me to.”

“Perhaps you're thinking of Rory Kinnear, who is indeed a British actor.”

“Yeah, that's him! I was a bit close, though.”

“Missed by a hair.”

“Your turn, Skip. Who's your John?”

Sherlock suppresses an inner sigh. He can't even believe he's doing this. He is aware of Martin Crieff's face plastered over his skin, however, and he gives a quick head tilt to indicate a brief thought and rustles up the first cross-reference for 'John' and 'England' that comes up.

“John Dalton,” he says.

“Good one, Martin.” Douglas responds.

“Who's that?” Arthur, predictably.

“A chemist.”

“What, like the man who gives you your prescriptions?”

Sherlock takes a deep inner calming breath. “Not exactly.”

The door clicks again and Carolyn appears. Her brow is lowered and she looks annoyed, though Sherlock begins to suspect it might be her natural expression as he hasn't yet seen her look any other way.

“Arthur, for goodness sake, how long does it take to give out two cups of coffee?”

“Sorry, mum, we were just playing 'Johns of England.' I lost.”

“What a shock. I need you back in the galley. Her Majesty has been ringing her bell for the last five minutes.”

“Yes, mum.”

He disappears and Carolyn shuts the door behind him. The innocuous click is distinctly ominous sounding as she stands and watches them, suspicion heavy on her face.

“I've just been having a nice little chat with our passenger. Mrs Nuha Assaf was telling me all about the latest gossip going around in Cairo. An escaped spy on the run from the British government? Something about murder and high treason? I don't suppose this is ringing any bells for you.”

“My, how dramatic,” Douglas drawls. He is looking amused.

Sherlock is staring at Carolyn, his fingers steepled against his lips. She is glaring at him, ignoring Douglas entirely. He watches her, knowing she wouldn't have revealed his presence on board her aircraft because it would be too incriminating for her at this point, but he's curious as to what else Adeela Doud might have revealed. It would have been obvious to anyone that his plan was to get back to England. He's only surprised by how little surveillance they managed to get into place before he managed to slip their (as always) inadequate and hole-filled net.

“I suppose you want to know what I said to her,” Carolyn snaps impatiently when it becomes clear that Sherlock isn't going to say anything.

He sighs. “Yes, I can imagine how eager you'd be to show her your new licence-less pilot.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Do you know how far you would have gotten if I hadn't agreed to let you on this plane, Mr Crieff?”

“Listen, Carolyn,” Douglas intercedes. “I give you my word that Martin here is not an escaped spy or a dangerous murderer or a traitor.”

“Oh, you know that, do you?”

“Yes, I do rather. You've trusted me this far and it is rather late to back out now.”

“This is getting absurd.” She turns back on Sherlock. “I demand you tell me your real name at once.”

“Carolyn--”

“Shut up, Douglas. Now, sir. Your name or I swear to you the moment we land I will be on the phone to the police faster than you can even imagine. I will tell them you held a gun to my head if I have to.”

“Carolyn, really--”

“Douglas, I told you to shut up.”

Sherlock stares at this woman, her fierce, tired eyes, the desperation in every crease of her face, her pride in every line of her suit. She is savagely loyal, he knows this from the ragtag crew that hovers around her. For all the insults and cutting remarks and low brow trickery, he is aware that the only reason he is here at all is because she trusted Douglas. It's an incredible sort of trust and one that he would not have understood six years ago.

So he's thinking of John when he finally pushes himself to his feet and sheds the last lingering shreds of Martin Crieff from his posture, holding out his hand to her from the other side of the flight deck.

She stares at it for a moment before slowly reaching forward and taking it. She is watching him, the lines in her face deepening as she tries to work it out. But it's only when he says it that the pieces click into place and she is both stunned and unbelieving.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says. “And I suppose I should thank you for letting me on your plane.”


	14. Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for last chapter's excessive prose, here have some excessive dialogue instead!

Carolyn's face is somewhere between stunned disbelief and resigned annoyance. It's an interesting mixture. She is clenching Sherlock's hand in a punishingly tight grip for such an old woman and he's not sure if she realises she's doing it. He watches their entwined hands pumping up and down in the air almost of their own volition and considers mentioning it to her but isn't sure if it would just make her more annoyed.

“Sherlock Holmes. Good Heavens.”

“Er. Carolyn. I think you're scaring him,” Douglas says.

She blinks and tears her eyes from where they've been gazing at Sherlock without interruption for the last thirty seconds and glares at Douglas instead. He is watching her with amused apprehension.

“You,” she says even as she flings Sherlock's hand from her. “You lied.”

“I did no such thing. You were...otherwise occupied in securing our passenger. Perhaps I merely took advantage of your distraction and your rather helpful unwillingness to press further.”

“If I had known--”

“Oh, Carolyn, would you really have said no to Sherlock Holmes?”

“If I'd known that this obsession of yours would take you this far I would never have let you send all those subscriptions to MJN's address. 'Oh, but Carolyn! Helena doesn't like junk mail! It has nothing to do with that fact that I have thirty separate pamphlets and magazines on the latest hat Sherlock Holmes was seen wearing and what Doctor Watson ate for lunch that day!'”

Sherlock watches with interest as Douglas's entire face suffuses itself with bright crimson. “I do not have thirty subscriptions—And Helena doesn't like junk mail. Need I remind you of that other subscription that gets sent to MJN Air? What's it called? Black Inches? Such a fascinating title. And what a proud piece of literature that must be.”

“Douglas!”

“Look, if we're going to be stuck with a pilot who doesn't know how to fly, aren't you at least glad that it's a pilot who can at least pretend to know how to fly?”

“Oh, yes? And what were you planning to do when we reach Chambery-Savoie and you're not permitted to fly anymore? Just stick your consulting detective here in the seat and hope he manages to deduce the plane to England? Perhaps he has a homing signal attached to his bloody doctor and will land us that way.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Carolyn. You always knew he couldn't fly and I resent the implication that I'm not perfectly capable of flying us all the way through to Fitton on my own. The CAA requires two pilots on board and as far as they will ever know we have two pilots on board: Captain Martin Crieff and First Officer Douglas Richardson. What more could you want?”

“You really don't want me to answer that, Douglas.”

“Carolyn, be reasonable--”

“Reasonable! He wants me to be reasonable! Sherlock bloody Holmes and the man is asking for reason!”

The click of the galley door goes almost unheard but not quite. The effect on all three of them is startling. Sherlock drops in his seat and Douglas whirls around, facing the instrument panel with a far more studious air than a cruising air plane could possibly require. Carolyn's entire face suddenly goes limp, a welcome smile plastered on her face that vanishes as quickly as it appears as she spots Arthur's anxious face peering around its edge.

“Hullo,” Arthur says nervously.

“Oh, it's you,” Carolyn sighs. “Well, get in here, then. Don't hang about in the door.”

“Is it safe?” Arthur says, slipping onto the flight deck and snapping the door shut behind him. “Only I heard yelling. Is Douglas talking about Sherlock Holmes again? I thought you mentioned him when I came in.”

“Just trying a new game,” Douglas says quickly.

“Oh, can I try? I love games.”

“It's...uh...complicated.”

“Yeah but what is it?”

“Uh. Martin, why don't you tell him about it.”

Game? What does he know about games? “It's called...uh...Deductions,” Sherlock says. Well, it is a game, he thinks. Of sorts.

“It sounds complicated,” Arthur says. “How does it go?”

“Well, you deduce things.” Douglas and Carolyn are trying hard not to stare at him. “You take something of somebody's and you try and work stuff out about them just from that object. Like a hat. Or a...a bag. And whoever gets the most things correct, wins.”

“Yeah, but we all already know each other.”

“Which is why it's a terrible idea,” Carolyn interjects loudly. “It's just Douglas getting overly excited about Sherlock Holmes again.”

“You know, Douglas,” Arthur says slowly. “I've read some of those magazines you get. Do you really think he and Doctor Watson were secretly married in Cornwall three years ago? It's just...isn't there that pretty girl in the white coat that he's always hanging around at the hospital? I like her.”

“Yes, thank you, Arthur,”Carolyn says hurriedly. “Let's not encourage him. I don't want to spend the rest of the flight listening to Douglas's raptures about the latest impossible case. And anyway, aren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on the passenger?”

“Oh! Right. That's what I came back here for. Actually, it's funny that you were talking about Sherlock Holmes because Mrs Assaf mentioned him, too. Isn't that odd?” He gives Douglas a hesitant look. “Well, I guess it's not that that odd.”

“Arthur--”

“Yes, well, anyway, Mrs Assaf was just telling me about how he was supposed to have been seen in Cairo. Apparently her cook is a huge fan. Maybe you know her, Douglas. Do you guys have a secret sign so you know each other all over the world, or like tattoos or something? 'Cos that would be so cool! Anyway, she said that her whole household was talking about him. One of her cleaning staff saw Sherlock Holmes at the pyramids. Maybe someone was trying to steal them or something, I don't know, but it sounds exciting. I wish I could meet Sherlock Holmes.”

“Let's hope for all our sakes that you never do. Was there something you actually wanted or did you just decide to pop in and help fuel Douglas's obsession?”

“Oh, right. Well, Mrs Assaf said she wanted to see you about the crew. Apparently there's something happening in Cairo right now. Some murderer or spy or something wandering around. Apparently the secret police are after him and she's thinks he might he have snuck onto the plane or something. I don't know, sounds a bit barmy to me. She's nervous and wants to meet everyone, though, and wanted to talk to you about seeing the pilots to make sure none of them are trying to kill her. Oh, I just thought of something! Maybe Sherlock Holmes is in Cairo to take care of the murderer!”

“Yes, wouldn't that be exciting. Go and tell Mrs Assaf that I'll be right out to talk to her.”

“Yes, mum, will do.” He gives them a last cheery grin before slipping back out into the galley and snapping the door shut behind him.

“Shit,” Sherlock says.

“Well, yes, a bit,” Douglas agrees.

“Okay, my deducing friend,” Carolyn says, turning on Sherlock with narrow eyes. “I need you to come clean. From little hints and remarks Mrs Assaf has been dropping since we took off, it's fairly clear that there's something happening here that I don't know about and if there's one thing I dislike it's not knowing things, especially when said things are occurring on my bloody jet. So, you have one chance to come clean before I go back out there are tell Mrs Assaf all about our new mystery pilot. What is this assassin and spy business about? I assume she is, in fact, talking about you?”

Sherlock doesn't even hesitate. Enough has been revealed by the newspapers and Adeela herself that for the most part what he can tell Carolyn is almost entirely truth. In any event, like with most people, the more involved Carolyn feels the more willing she'll be to help. “She's MI6. Her name is Adeela Doud and she's been tracking me since I slipped her harness two days ago. I'm in Cairo to deal with a terrorist cell but it turns out there's some unfinished business relating to the James Moriarty/Richard Brook case back in England that needs attending to first. What I told you is true: John Watson is in danger. Agent Doud did not think my warning was worth listening to. Apparently John Watson is not important enough for MI6 to involve themselves with, which just goes to show how lacking in actual intelligence the SIS really is.”

“Then why this deception? You couldn't just call your wealthy and powerful brother? Or did you make him up? Am I doing this for free? Because if I'm risking incarceration and interrogation for nothing--”

“No, unfortunately my brother exists in the most literal of terms. You will be compensated one way or another.”

“Then why couldn't he help you? And why the subterfuge? I mean, a pilot for Heaven's sake!”

“It's...complicated. But I'm not currently...welcome in England.”

“I swear, if the word 'traitor' appears in the next minute I'm going to throw you off this plane so fast so help me God.”

“Nothing so drastic. It was simply a matter of emptying a vault.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Well,” Douglas says, breaking into a pause that is looking to become awkward. “Now that we're all reasonable again, what exactly are we going to do about this little meet-and-greet our friendly MI6 agent has requested.”

“Is it possible she knows you're here?” Carolyn demands with an eye on Sherlock.

“Unlikely. I imagine it was a lucky guess. She doesn't know I'm here. She needed to get back to England, probably having to do with the fact that she lost track of me in the first place. Either reporting back in person or she's being pulled. Could be either knowing Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?”

He waves his hand in dismissal, ignoring the question. “Heard of a little air charter company that was hiring, found out that a pilot was hired in the last day, probably took a wild chance and happened to get lucky. No, she doesn't know I'm here, but she wants me to be. It would be worth a great deal to her.” He turns a sharp eye on Carolyn. “Was she checked for electronics? Can she communicate with the ground from up here?”

“She was scanned, of course, but she has a laptop with her and I can only imagine a cell phone. Ordinarily I'd say she wouldn't be able to contact ground but if she's MI6...”

“Ground communication is almost a certainty. Short of tying her up and locking her in the toilets I suspect there's not much to do about that. That leaves fooling her.”

“Can it be done?”

“Of course it can. I think. Just let me think.”

“While you think, I'm going to actually talk to her. Perhaps I can persuade her out of it entirely.”

Sherlock gives her a sceptical glance but says nothing as she disappears through to the galley and closes the door behind her.

“You know,” Douglas says with a slow drawl. “There is one way we could disable her communication with ground that doesn't involve actual kidnapping.”

Sherlock grunts. He is trying to figure out how he's going to fool the woman who is being paid to track him from recognising him entirely. “What?” he says absently.

“Well you see, there is one good thing about having Arthur on board.” He reaches for the intercom.

“Arthur? You in the galley?”

Arthur's voice crackles back to them. “Yeah, Douglas. Need something?”

Douglas's answering grin is a beautiful thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Douglas Richardson: First Officer for MJN Air and Official Member of The Empty Hearse Club.
> 
> Arthur Shappey: ships Sherlolly.


	15. Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one's super short but it was kind of fun all the same.  
> My entire makeup routine involves a combination foundation first thing in the morning so I pretty much made this whole thing up. You definitely should not come to me if you ever need to disguise yourself. If you see something and you're like "omg hearsay!" please just accept that I don't know what I'm talking about.  
> 

Carolyn's makeup kit is a stunning array of useful artifacts. She watches grimly from over Sherlock's shoulder as he rifles through it, making happy noises of exclamation at each new find.

“Eye drops,” he chuckles delightedly and pauses to administer one in each eye. His vision swims for a moment and he blinks, clearing it. “Beautiful.”

“And what exactly is that going to do?”

“Dilates the pupil.” He pulls out the eyeliner, a dark brown, and grins. “Perfect. You are perfect.” He can see her unconsciously preen in the mirror behind him as he leans forward and uncaps the narrow stick. “The eyes are the most important feature in the face. Change those and you change the face itself.” He paints a narrow line over the edge of each of his top lids, a slight and almost invisible change, then uses it again at the top outer corner and the bottom inner lid in an attempt to lessen the affect of their slight upward angle, a distinction that's always annoyed him.

He returns the eyeliner and comes back up after a moment's search with an eyebrow pencil, a darker shade than the eyeliner was. He uses it heavily on the skin beneath his eyebrows and when he's finished the pencil is dull but his eyebrows have darkened and thickened and have been subtly lengthened. They overshadow his eyes and he raises them so that he is looking back at himself with a slightly worried and self-effacing expression on his face.

“Now,” he says. “Do you have cotton? Something I can use for padding?”

“Tissue?”

“Only if there's nothing else. I need it to pad out my cheeks. Does your brassiere have a padded layer? Most women's under garments do these days.”

She stares at him as if he's gone mad. “You want my bra.”

“Don't be an idiot. Just the padding.”

“Oh for—I can't even tell you how much your brother needs to pay me to make this worth it.”

“Consider it yours.”

She kicks him out of the tiny cubicle toilet that they'd been crowded together in and shuts the door in his face despite his protests on the complete lack of draw her bared torso would have for him. It takes a few minutes and when the door opens again she is standing there with two padded cups in her hands. She gives them to him without a word and he takes them.

“You know, I only really needed one.”

“If you think I am walking about with my tits lopsided, then you can take your brother's money and shove it up your--”

“What I meant to say is, thank you for your breast pads, Carolyn.”

There are a small pair of nail scissors that Sherlock uses to cut two small ovals out of one of the pads. He fits them a few times, trimming and modifying under he looks at himself in the mirror and is happy with the result. The sharp jut of his cheekbones have been softened and he smiles at himself with Martin Crieff's new face, a far gentler smile than anything Adeela Doud would have seen. It's the smile he saves for John Watson and his entire face is changed.

“Well.”

He has forgotten that Carolyn is even there.

“Does it work?” he asks.

“It...works. It's...disturbing.”

“Almost done.”

“There's more?”

“Concealer.”

“What on earth for? No, it doesn't matter, I haven't got any. You'll have to do with foundation.”

“Hm.” He hunts it down and pulls it out. “Powder.”

“I'm not exactly a spotty sixteen year old anymore, Mr Holmes.”

“I need a dish. A cup. Anything.”

She sighs but vanishes around the door frame and reappears a moment later with a small plastic cup. “Will that do?”

He takes it from her without a word and carefully taps some of the powder into it then holds it under the tap and carefully drops a few trickles of water into it. He mixes it, adding water and powder until he's made a flesh colour paste. He uses his finger to dab it on the distinct arches of his upper lip, taking away some of the edge, and spreads it along the bottom edge of his lower lip, narrowing the line of his mouth. You can still see where his true lips begin and end but they're softened and it's no longer so obvious and he doesn't intend for Adeela Doud to get a good long look at him anyway. He waits until it dries before using some of the dry powder to blend the paste in with the rest of the skin around his mouth.

“Incredible,” Carolyn says.

“Almost there.”

He takes the blush and with the brush smears some across the bridge of his nose. It makes him look inexplicably younger.

As a final touch he paints the pad of his thumb with the eyebrow pencil and smears it lightly over his top lip, giving it the subtle hint of stubble left over from using an electric shaver.

He's finished and he stares at himself critically in the mirror. “Well?” he demands.

Carolyn stares at him, unwilling admiration and amazement on her face. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“It's not recommended, no.”

He shifts his posture, bringing his shoulders and head slightly forward and the effect on his height is immediate while at the same time reducing the appearance of length in his neck.

“Okay,” he says with a short nod. “Tell Douglas I'm ready.”


	16. Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my salute to the end of Cabin Pressure. Episode Z is recording today if you didn't already know. John Finnemore, you are an infinitely better writer than I am, but please take this humble offering of utter rot in the spirit of which it is intended.  
> Aaaannnnddd fail. Edited because I screwed up with continuity. Fixed now! Sorry about that.

“Are you sure about this?” Arthur says. He stares at the bottle of wine in his hand. “This is the good stuff. Did mum say it was okay?”

“Well...not in so many words, but Mrs Assaf is our honoured guest, after all,” Douglas says, not very reassuringly.

“Is this about Sherlock Holmes again?”

Douglas coughs. “Simply acknowledging a fellow fan. Nothing so wrong with that, is it?”

Arthur gives him a doubtful look. “So should I take it out now?”

“Well, yes now that you've opened it it's not a bad idea.”

Arthur gives one last shrug and leaves the flight deck. As soon as the door shuts behind him Sherlock is on his feet. His back had been carefully turned the whole time but now he's out of his seat and Douglas is watching him with a look that can most closely be called apprehensive. Sherlock suspects it's not an expression the First Officer is familiar with because it sits awkwardly on his face, fighting the lines that unimpressed boredom have spent the last five decades stamping there.

“You're sure this is going to work?” Douglas asks.

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “This is your idea.”

“Yes, well...my personal genius aside...”

“I'm sure it will be fine.”

“Where's Carolyn?”

The door opens and her head appears, her face creased in urgent lines. “What's taking so long? Arthur's heading out!”

Sherlock is moving even as she speaks, pushing past her and with a last straightening of his hat and a final adjustment to his expression (his eyebrows high on his forehead and an anxious look on his face) and his posture (shoulders and head forward, an overriding sense of quick movements and habitual impatience) he opens the galley door and emerges into the cabin.

Adeela Doud sticks out immediately, the only passenger on the sixteen seat plane. She is sitting at a window, one wide seat between her and where Arthur is explaining to her this sudden advent of a whole bottle of relatively expensive wine in cheerful tones. In spite of this, she immediately glances upwards as Sherlock's appearance catches her eye, but she looks away again almost immediately, her attention fixed politely on the idiotic boy who is now telling her all about the Empty Hearse Club and some of Douglas's wilder theories.

Sherlock doesn't close the door behind him and he's aware of Carolyn at his back, standing out of Adeela's immediate line of sight in the galley but with a view of the aisle where Arthur is and where Sherlock is now hurrying forward, his strides short but quick. The noise of the plane is slightly louder than it would be in the cabin with the doors opened straight through to the flight deck and he can almost picture Douglas's head craning backwards, trying to catch sight of him as he makes the short walk down the aisle where Arthur is still, still talking.

“Ah, Artur, so much speech!” he says as he approaches them and his French accent is proper Parisian this time, without the guttural sloppiness of the French Canadians.

“Oh, hello Skip!” Arthur greets him. “This is Mrs Assaf.” Arthur looks over and Sherlock ducks his head, the brim of his cap covering his altered face.

“Pour out zee wine, Artur,” Sherlock sighs, making a show of brushing at the lapels of his blue coat.

“Oh, right, of course,” Arthur says and moves forward and tips the bottle, looking away from Sherlock to watch his own actions.

Sherlock is aware that Adeela Doud is staring at him but the cabin lights are dimmed and the sky outside completely dark now. He doesn't shy away from her gaze at all. There is a laptop on the seat beside her, the one that Arthur is leaning over, and a mobile on the opened tray over her lap.

“Madame, I am Captain Martin Crieff.” The 'r' is rolled with an expert tongue. “I have been told that you are wishing to meet with me. I regret to say, we are vehry beezy. Occupied, as you say, in the flying of the plane. As you see, I am pilot, I do not assassinate the people, except when zee plane is crashed because I am having conversation instead of flying her.”

His voice is high-pitched and tinged with self-importance and his expression is both annoyed and apologetic, a queerly twisted combination that doesn't come naturally to him.

She is trying to focus on him, but the plane has suddenly dropped with no warning. Arthur makes an unconscious grab for the armrest and the bottle fumbles in his grip. A small splash spills, falling into her lap and she gasps, jumping upwards. The tray with her mobile is knocked upwards, as is the filled cup of wine which makes a desperate leap into the air before coming back down, its contents spilling across the unprotected screen of the mobile.

Even as she gives a cry of chagrin the plane lurches again and Adeela, half out of her seat, falls sideways into Arthur even as Sherlock himself lurches forwards, making a grab for the wine bottle clutched in Arthur's hand as if trying to save its contents. Arthur, utterly off balance, gives a cry as he tumbles sideways into the space between the seats and the wine bottle, half flung already, is tossed into the air. Sherlock's hand reaches for it but instead of closing around it, he manages to miss it, smacking it downwards instead and with a loud, heartbreaking crack the heavy bottle lands squarely on top of the laptop, the deep red wine gushing forwards and covering the seat, sluicing off the hard plastic computer and bleeding into the long crack that has appeared in its chassis.

“What have you done!” Adeela shrieks, and even as she does the cabin address comes to life and Douglas's voice drones over them, tight with tension.

“Could the captain please return to the flight deck immediately. Cabin crew and passenger, please be assured that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. A minor mishap only. I repeat, there is nothing to worry about.”

“Oh my God,” Adeela murmurs and she is falling back into her seat, her face completely white and her eyes shut tightly.

“Good God!” Carolyn is rushing into the cabin. “Mrs Assaf, are you alright? Arthur! Where's Arthur? Arthur, for Heaven's sake what are you doing there, get up!”

“I'm trying, mum!” Arthur's voice is muffled and unhappy. There is wine dripping on him from the seat and he is struggling in the tight space to find some purchase.

“Captain, please return to the flight deck. We'll take care of this.”

Martin gives a tight nod and even as he walks quickly back up the aisle he can hear Carolyn, her voice placating and worried, “Your computer, your mobile! Oh dear, I'm so sorry! Please, let me see if I can clean them, perhaps they can be salvaged. MJN Air will reimburse you for any damage done, naturally.”

It is the last word he hears from her as he snaps the galley door closed behind him. The flight deck door is still open and he can already see the back of Douglas's head, the tension in his neck and his grip tight on the control stick. He goes through the opening and the moment he shuts the door behind him Douglas starts to laugh.

“Was it perfect? Tell me it was perfect,” he demands as Sherlock climbs back into his seat. There is a grin on his own face and he can't help the giggle that erupts from him.

“You should have seen Arthur,” he says and Douglas bursts into a peal of mirth that leaves Sherlock giggling helplessly beside him. He grabs the napkins sitting nearby and dips them into the cup of water beside his seat, using it to scrub at his face.

“Oh my God, I can't believe that worked,” Douglas says as soon as he's able to speak. He is looking slightly stunned.

Sherlock shrugs, scrubbing harshly at his left eyebrow. The napkin is coming back black and he grabs a fresh one. “It was a sound enough premise and I was there in person so it had a good chance of coming off successfully. You shouldn't sound so surprised.”

“Well, I'm used to my plans coming off successfully, of course, but it seems the idea of MI6 does something to my self-confidence.”

“Don't be ridiculous. They're idiots.”

“Not as reassuring as you would imagine.”

The door opens and Carolyn comes in. She is carrying the cracked laptop and the mobile and without a word she hands them to Sherlock. He's tossed the soiled napkins aside and is reaching for the broken electronics before she's even snapped the door shut behind her.

“You are aware that it is not in fact MJN Air who will be reimbursing her for these.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her even as he pulls the back off the phone and extracts its battery from its niche. He can see the small chip immediately and he pulls it out and without hesitating drops it into the cup of water at his side. He leaves it submerged for a moment before pulling it out tapping it dry against a napkin then inserting it back into its slot. He replaces the battery and the protective case and hands it back to Carolyn.

She takes it and inspects it closely. “It still turns on.”

He waves her comment aside. “About all she can do with it now is play solitaire.”

He turns his concentration to the laptop, flipping the top open and hits the power button. It whirrs and comes to stuttering life but the screen remains black and unresponsive. He smiles tightly before shutting the lid again and flipping it over.

“Wine?” he asks. Carolyn hands him a bottle, full but uncorked, and with careful precision he begins to trickle it in the outlets and into the fan grating, letting it soak in completely before opening the top again and pouring it over the keyboard. The red liquid slides into every crack and crevice, seeping in around the power button, and only when he's emptied a quarter of the bottle does he upend the computer itself, shaking out the extra drops and letting the wine slide around inside the machine.

He presses the power button again and this time the light on the button flares briefly before the computer makes a distressing squawk and dies completely.

“Excellent,” he says. “Make sure you clean it off properly.”

The door opens again and Arthur appears. He is wine-stained and bedraggled. He looks utterly distressed and the look he levels on the others is almost heartbreaking.

“I'm so sorry, mum!” he moans. “It was the plane, though! I couldn't help it.”

“Now, now, accidents happen,” Carolyn says. “Captain Crieff here is just looking at the laptop to see if he can make it work again but I'm afraid it's quite dead. I'll explain to Mrs Assaf, Arthur. This wasn't your fault.”

He nods miserably and moves aside and Carolyn, with a last look at Sherlock, grabs the laptop from him and sails out of the flight deck.

“You alright, Arthur?” Douglas asks.

Arthur sighs heavily. “Fine.”

“Not hurt?”

He sighs again. “No.”

“Well, that's what's important, isn't it?”

“I suppose. What happened, anyway?”

“Hm?”

“With the plane. When it did all that.”

“Oh. Erm. Bird strike.”

“Wow, really? Is it okay? Did you see it?”

“The bird? Yes, Arthur, it's completely fine. It hit a huge metal tube in the sky going five hundred miles an hour but it's utterly unharmed, just a fun story to tell the grandkids.”

“Oh. Phew! Thank God for that, eh?”

Douglas sighs but says nothing.

“By the way, Skip,” Arthur says, “Your French accent is really good. I almost thought it was real. Did Douglas dare you to do it? Because I thought for sure he had.”

“Yes, it's a bit of a bet between Captain Crieff and myself. Who can do a more convincing French accent.”

“Can I play, too?”

“Um. No, we've finished the game. Martin here has already won.”

“But I'm really good! Bonji heur, amigo!”

“Um. No, Arthur, I don't think so.”

“Can we play something else?”

“Oh God, no, no more games!” Carolyn pushes into the flight deck, sending Arthur reeling off balance for a moment. She grabs his arm to steady him and gives it a shake. “These are the sorts of things that happen when we play games. Wine gets spilt and computers get broken.”

“It was a bird strike, though.”

“Just be quiet and go back into the galley. Mrs Assaf wants some whiskey, probably to calm her nerves.”

“Yes, mum.”

As soon as he's gone she turns to the two pilots, glaring at each one of them darkly before ending it on Douglas. “Now. We have four and a half hours before we land in France. Do you think it's possible to get through it without causing anymore damage to anymore expensive electronic equipment?”

“You know me, Carolyn,” Douglas drawls. “Always up for a new challenge.”

She levels him with a warning look but doesn't bother with a rejoinder, leaving the flight deck and doing her best to slam the door behind her.

 


	17. Bored

Flying is boring.

 

* * * * *

 

It is so.

Boring.

 

* * * * *

 

_Boring._

 

* * * * *

 

_BORED._

 

* * * * *

 

“Oh my God, this is so  _boring.”_

Douglas looks over at him, half a smile on his quirked lips. “Well, yes. It's sitting in a metal tube for hours on end while physics does all the work. What did you actually expect would happen?”

“I don't know! All these dials and sticks and switches. Surely something interesting must happen.”

“Something interesting happening while you're thirty-five thousand feet off the ground is probably not as fun as you'd think. Usually it involves a great deal of fire and crumpled metal and people dying.”

“But does it have to be so tedious? Can't I do something?”

“What? Press a button?”

“Yes! Anything!”

“Okay, press that one.”

“That's the seat belt sign.”

“Yes, but it's a button. And you can press it.”

“I hate you.”

Sherlock heaves a sigh and settles into his seat, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. Douglas gives a small laugh and the flight deck is quiet. 

The plane's engine is a hum of background noise, a constant lull that soothes in spite of Sherlock's best efforts. He is anxious and impatient. There is still two hours to go before arriving in France for refuelling and he doesn't want to be soothed and lulled. He wants to be in London. He wants to be opening the door of 221B with John at his heels, their breath short in their lungs, their mouths split wide with grins, collapsing against the wall with their heads flung back before their eyes seek each other out to find that they are smiling. God, how he wants. He misses John Watson with the same frustration as the missing link between the scattered clues. He needs John Watson, like that last chemical in an experiment that will transform one substance into another, liquid into gas into solid. It is aching and bleak and it hurts like a physical wound, like a shot to the chest, and he is grasping with hopeless fingers to hold the edges together. He thinks of how much would have been different had he returned ten minutes earlier. Ten minutes, before John had opened his mouth, before that proposal, heretical and unbalanced and  _wrong_ , could have been stuttered out between twisted lips. He hadn't realised. How hadn't he realised how much he needed John? How hadn't he realised how much John had needed him? Had he always been so oblivious? So stupid? So slow? This wasn't how it was supposed to end when he'd taken that jump off the roof of Saint Bart's. This wasn't how he had meant for it to happen.

“You alright?”

He looks over. Douglas is watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be alright?”

“You haven't complained about being bored for at least fifteen minutes.”

Sherlock glares at him and turns away, resting his chin on the tops of his knees and sighing.

 

* * * * *

 

“God, I'm bored.”

 

* * * * *

 

“How about a game?”

“What kind of game?”

“Simon Says.”

“Who's Simon and why am I interested in what he has to say?”

“Nevermind.”

 

* * * * *

 

“I know.”

“Hm. Do you?”

“The Game of Lists.”

“Lists.”

“We choose a list – oh, I don't know – the Seven Dwarves or something. Whoever gets them all right wins.”

“Which seven dwarves? Any seven dwarves?”

“How about we let you choose the list, shall we?”

“The elements, then.”

“The...elements? You mean...like fire, water--”

“Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron--”

“Ah. Those elements.”

“--Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Fluorine, Neon, Sodium...”

 

* * * * *

 

“...Palladium, Silver, Cadmium, Indium, Tin...”

 

* * * * *

 

“Rutherfordnium, Dubnium, Seaborgium, Bohrium, Hassium...”

 

* * * * *

 

“...Actinium, Thorium, Protactinium--”

“You know, I think you win this one.”

“I'm not done.”

“That's okay.”

“But how do you know if I'll get them all right?”

“I trust you.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

 

* * * * *

 

“So. Do you want to play aga--”

“No. No, that's fine.”

“Oh. Okay.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Bored.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

 


	18. Chambery-Savoie

France at twelve thirty in the morning on a mostly empty airstrip is probably more exciting than it has any right to be. Chambery-Savoie is a blip on the map compared to Cairo, Paris or London, but it's a glorious change, nonetheless, a break from the stifling sameness of a small flight deck for six and half dark and grating hours.

An hour before landing Douglas had started singing Tosca except without any of the actual words, an unending strain of “dum dah dah”s and “duh nah nah”s that had Sherlock consciously reminding himself that the man had probably saved both his and John's lives.

As GERTI had dipped forward to make the landing into a sea of lights on a black ocean canvas, like some strange inversion of the night sky, the world rushing towards them with a thrill that was the complete opposite of the terror Sherlock had felt when the sky had opened up in front of him outside of Cairo, Douglas had switched to La Gazza Ladra, his voice a deep thrum in his chest and his face set with concentration. The moment when the tops of the buildings switched from below them to above, Sherlock had felt his heart thud, remembering the last time he had felt that sensation of falling too high and too fast. But he wasn't frightened. Even back then, more than three years ago now, he hadn't been afraid. It had been the start of something but also an ending, had he only known it. It had been a conscious decision to leave John behind. It would have been so easy to take him along but the fear of losing him to some stray bullet, of having him along as a walking pressure point, Sherlock's biggest weakness striding right along side him, was too much. John was safest where he was, not knowing, not understanding. It was best that way.

Sherlock hadn't counted on Mary, of course. Of the insidious caution of Moriarty's network, a spider web in place all down to the smallest strand. He wondered how long Mary had been shadowing John before she had decided it was safe to come out of hiding. Did she love him? She must have done at some point. When the months had passed and Moriarty's voice had fallen into silence, when Moran's messages had tapered off and become less urgent, when it was clear after a year and a half that Sherlock really wasn't coming back, how long was it before she had manoeuvred her way into John's life? How long until her obsession turned from clinical to personal? She had snapped him up, eager for that mundanity, ready to settle. But Sherlock knew and John knew that leaving things behind were never that easy.

Sherlock knows that all of this is his fault. John was safe until he had come back. He had set the whole thing in motion again. Killing Magnussen had been the only way, the only way to set it right again. With Sherlock exiled and vulnerable outside of the protection of his city and his big brother, an easy target for what was left of the web, Mary could go back into retirement and John would be once more safe. Simple cause and effect. Putting Sherlock back out in the world where the last of Moriarty's people can finally get rid of him. He was ready to allow that, ready to let that happen if it meant John would be left alone. But Moran's words come back to him now and he can't get them out of his head: _“I will make sure that John Watson knows that you cried for him.”_ Dying wasn't enough anymore apparently. There are many things he will sacrifice: London, Baker Street, the lab at St Bart's, his freedom, his cases. But John? No. There are somethings that just can't be allowed to happen and Sherlock is no longer capable of imagining a world in which John Watson does not exist.

“Well?”

Douglas's voice cuts into his thoughts and he startles, looking up to find the First Officer out of his seat and the hum of the engines silenced. There are already lights coming towards them from the terminal and Sherlock can hear movement from the cabin, the doors unsealing and the steps dropping down onto tarmac.

“Well what?”

“Do you think she'll try to use to phone now that we're grounded?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. It's a legitimate concern and he had thought of it. But getting in touch with MI6 isn't as easy as all that. Her deeper contacts were on the damaged chip and an airport this small doesn't have computer terminals for travellers to log into. He should keep an eye on her, though. He starts to get up when Carolyn appears, slipping onto the flight deck, her eyes seeking him immediately out.

“Now, listen here, Mr Consulting Disaster. Arthur's taking her to the terminal as per her request and you can thank every god you know that he's in a helpful mood.”

“Ah!” Douglas says with a smirk.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I don't understand.”

“You will understand it, because Arthur in a helpful mood is like a Labrador puppy whose master has just walked through the front door. Given the disaster with the phone and the computer, I've informed her that Arthur will be on hand to see to her every need. He is stuck on her like chewing gum on the seat of your best silk trousers.”

There is movement outside and the golf cart has pulled up. From inside the darkened flight deck, the three of them watch as Adeela and Arthur climb into the vehicle. Adeela is speaking and gesturing in broad movements and Sherlock can see the frustration on her face, restrained only by the ingrained social constructs that insist on a certain civility of manner when confronted with someone trying to be helpful.

He watches them pull away, Arthur talking brightly now while she sits defeated in her seat and Sherlock moves to get up.

“Where are you going?” Carolyn demands. 

“To keep an eye on her.”

“I've told you, Arthur won't let her out of his sight.”

“Yes, but,” Douglas grimaces eloquently. “You know I'm terribly fond of the boy and all that, Carolyn, but he does tend to have a knack for being a complete and utter clot.”

Carolyn opens her mouth to argue but Sherlock can see the resignation on her face when it comes. “Oh, alright. But I don't think it's a good idea that  _ he _ show his face out there. You've already taken off your makeup and it'll take too long to get it all together again. We're only stopped for an hour. And even if she should decide to call her chief, or whatever, how are you going to stop her? Set the building on fire? Cut the power? Tackle her to the ground?”

“I have a better idea,” Douglas says. “How about I go?”

“And do what? Talk at her?”

“Well, yes, I rather thought I would. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm rather good at it. What was that phrase you used last month in Tenerife? Ah yes,  _ a smooth talking old smarmpot. _ ”

“If you get us thrown into prison for seducing an MI6 agent, Douglas, you will be out of a job so fast your head will be spinning.”

“If I get us thrown in prison, my job will be the least of our problems. But don't worry, I won't lay it on too thick. She's married, after all.”

“As if that's ever stopped you.”

“Carolyn!”

“Yes, alright, alright. Honour among libertines and all that. Go ahead, just make sure to tell the ground crew what needs doing first. The last thing we need is a delay because you were too busy flirting.”

She turns and leaves, leaving the flight deck door open. Sherlock can hear her puttering about in the galley and he gives a huff, throwing himself back into his seat. “How long until we take off again?”

“An hour. Take a nap or something.” Douglas reaches for the radio.

Sherlock snorts.

“ _ Ground control, this is Golf-Tango-India, requesting another golf cart for transport. _ Well, you don't have to take a nap. Just don't try to fly GERTI or anything. The ground crew are refuelling and you'll end up running someone over. Also Carolyn will kill us both.”

Sherlock waves him away. “I won't touch anything.”

The radio crackles.  _ “Golf-Tango-India, this is ground control. Request received. Stand by for transportation.” _

Douglas gets his coat from the flight deck locker and pulls it on. “Naturally not. I'll try and find you a book or something. Anything in particular you're interested in?”

“Something not boring.”

“How helpful.”

He claps Sherlock on the shoulder, a display of male affection that leaves Sherlock somewhat floundering and Sherlock listens to him leave. He watches out the windscreen as the second golf cart pulls up and a moment later Douglas appears and climbs in. He knows Douglas can't see him, the flight deck lights turned off and the interior in darkness, but regardless Sherlock sees the First Officer raise a hand in farewell as the vehicle drives away and before he even realises he's doing it, Sherlock finds that for some reason he is waving back.

 


	19. Layover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this yesterday and instead spent the entire day reading an 87k word Sherlock meta. My life has changed but the fic endures.

It's one of the longest hours of Sherlock's life. It's reminiscent of the days when John would leave in a huff and spend the night kipping on someone's lilo and Sherlock would spend his staring at the back of the couch, unable to think as he waited for the hours to tick by and the front door to open. It was like those interminable months, living on his own in 221B, knowing that John was in his own home, with his own life, with a person that wasn't Sherlock, trying to concentrate on experiments that meant less than nothing and which he kept messing up because he couldn't seem to focus. Sherlock sits in the darkened flight deck with the blue statue of Nut between his fingers and he tries to remember that he doesn't have a choice, that this is out of his control. He trusts Douglas completely, which is a strange development. Carolyn, as well, though he's less certain how far she can be pushed. Arthur...he doesn't even think about Arthur. The boy is negligible but certainly useful. He thinks of the setup with the wine and finds himself grinning in the dark.

He lets his eyes close, bringing the skin-warmed stone to his lips. The carved edges of the goddess bite into his skin and he presses harder, trying to imprint them. He thinks of John, of sharp white teeth, and imagines them sinking into the cushion of his lip. He tilts his head back and it's his chair at home, cracked black leather and he can almost feel the arms caging him in, strong on either side of him, the solid presence of a second body leaning over him and the beginning of a tongue sliding into his mouth, warm and wet. He can almost feel the radiating heat, hear the thrum of rushing blood. He can imagine so clearly the sounds John would make, the hitch of his breath, stuttering and uncertain, but wanting, so very wanting, and the small whine like something breaking when Sherlock's hand reaches up, his fingers sliding into the short hair at the nape of John's neck and something is completed, something is fixed. He can feel it, can hear it. It's so clear that it could almost be real.

“Captain Crieff?”

He opens his eyes and blinks. There is movement out on the tarmac. A golf cart is driving away and Carolyn is talking to one of the ground crew. There is the sound of voices and people moving from beyond the galley behind him and Sherlock realises that somehow everything has happened without him noticing.

He also realises he's sitting half sprawled in his seat with a blue stone statue between his lips and an erection that Douglas can't possibly miss seeing should he take one more step into the flight deck, as dimly lit as it is.

He straightens in his seat and crosses his legs, dropped the carved goddess into his lap and wincing because that really wasn't a good idea for several reasons. Douglas has entered the flight deck and his eyes follow the goddess as she falls and Sherlock can see the exact moment the grin starts in his eyes and begins to crook the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls. He is blushing furiously and he feels an immeasurable amount of gratitude for the fact that the lights aren't on.

“I didn't say a word,” Douglas protests, shutting the door behind him with a snap.

Sherlock glares at him. “Enjoy the layover?”

“Oh, yes. Your secret agent is quite the woman. If I weren't afraid of being arrested I might seriously think about making the effort.”

“Did she try to make contact?”

“I imagine she had hopes, but the Chamberly-Savoie airport at one in the morning isn't exactly hopping. She made a brief enquiry about computer terminals at the gate but didn't seem to be overly bothered by their nonexistence.” He climbs into his seat and begins flipping at switches and GERTI hums to life around them.

“There is one interesting thing that happened, however,” Douglas says and he looks closely at Sherlock, something hesitant in his face. “When we were getting ready to board again the strap on Not-Actually-Mrs-Assaf's purse broke and we had to stop to pick everything up. Nothing incriminating,” he says in answer to the question on Sherlock's face. “But a young woman who was passing stopped to help us gather things and she...well, she sort of... _didn't_ pickpocket me.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You didn't get pickpocketed.”

“She was kneeling beside me and sort of leaned over the grab something and I felt her hand go into my coat pocket. I looked over to confront her but she was watching me and had this expectant look on her face. It startled me enough that I didn't say anything but after Mrs Assaf's belongings had been collected and we were on our way again, I put my hand in my pocket and I found this.”

He holds something out and Sherlock stares at it, the innocuous black rectangle in the palm of Douglas's hand. It's a phone. A disposable one and it's switched off. Sherlock reaches for it and he sees his hand is shaking.

“I assume it's meant for you,” Douglas says, watching as Sherlock opens the back and takes out the chip, inspecting it closely as if somehow any treachery could be detected by simply looking. “As fascinating as I am, I don't think anyone's had to resort to slipping cheap mobiles in my pocket as a way of getting my attention.”

“A phone,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Well, yes. Is it bugged?”

“If there's tracking then it's too late now. And clearly the person behind this knew exactly where I'd be and where I'm heading so it's pointless to worry about that now.” He presses the power button and waits while the screen comes to life. It's the most basic of phones, clearly meant for nothing more complicated than voice calls and perhaps text messaging. Sherlock stares at it for a moment, wondering who he's supposed to call. With a sense of trepidation he navigates to the contact list and finds a single number listed. He stares at it, trying to figure out if it's familiar, wondering if he's seen it before, but nothing comes to mind. The combination brings no memories and he can feel both frustration and fear bubbling up. This is Mycroft, almost certainly. But how far does he trust Mycroft? He understands he had no choice in sending Sherlock off. Sherlock had planned it that way, had made it as clear as possible who was to be blamed for the situation he had put himself and John in. And Mycroft had reacted in the only way he could have. It was a mercy, after all. He had given Sherlock a chance that he wouldn't otherwise have had in a high security jail cell, the psychopathic little brother of a government official who can't afford to have Sherlock hanging around in the near background with his blood stained hands and his unstable mind. But that doesn't mean Mycroft wouldn't help him when he needs it. In fact, his entire adult life Mycroft has been trying to help him whether he needed it or not. The single execution of a man who required execution wasn't going to change that.

“Are you going to call?” Douglas asks.

Sherlock stares at the number a moment longer. Does he have a choice? He opens his mouth to answer and as he does the door opens and Arthur appears. Sherlock's hand closes around the small phone and he thrusts it into his jacket.

“Mum wants to know what's taking so long,” he says.

“Just waiting for radio clearance,” Douglas says and Arthur gives a cheery nod and vanishes again.

“Well, you have till Fitton to decide,” he says to Sherlock with a tense little smile. “ _Please turn off all electronic devices while the aircraft is in flight,_ and all that. Buckle yourself in, Captain Crieff. We're going home.”

 


	20. Fitton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I'm so sorry this is taking so long. It turns out that no matter which writing project I work on I'll only end up feeling guilty about whichever one I'm not doing. I'm going to try and get this done a little faster now that I've established the extreme nature of my conscience. So here's hoping in that in the next couple of weeks we'll all figure out where exactly all this is going. For now...England!

It's an hour and a half flight to Fitton from Paris, a distance so negligible that by the time the readings tell Sherlock that they've passed over London, he still has three of the nails left on his right hand and Douglas has only told him to stop fidgeting eighteen times.

The only exciting thing to happen was a brief interval over the English Channel when Douglas let him take control of the plane. It was a moment of pure adrenaline, the moment he touched the controls and GERTI responded.

Carolyn was also affected, though possibly by something other than adrenaline. The moment Douglas managed to straighten the plane again and the slightly frantic call from ATC was dealt with, she had burst into the flight deck with an expression so thunderous that Sherlock wondered if maybe he had found her limit.

“You idiots!”

“Carolyn, shush! The passenger!”

“The passenger, as you so kindly remembered we are flying, is currently in the toilet rediscovering the catering. Which is where you will end up as soon as we land this plane, Douglas Richardson. You gave me your word--”

“The skies are perfectly clear, Carolyn, not another plane for miles. And no harm was done.”

“Douglas--”

“Yes, alright, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“You're bloody right it won't happen again because I'm never going to let it. This,” She stabbed a finger at Sherlock, “Will never, ever happen again. I don't care if God himself needs a quick undercover nip over to Bethlehem, we're never doing this again. Next time you want to get your ridiculous fannish feels out of your system, you can go on the internet or join a church like everyone else.”

“Carolyn--”

“Not a word, Douglas. You are not allowed to speak. The only thing you are permitted to do from here on out is land this plane in Fitton without killing us. Do you understand?”

Douglas sighed, giving her a nod, and with a last glare in Sherlock's direction she slammed back out onto into the galley.

Now, twenty minutes from landing, Sherlock can hardly contain himself. His feet are tapping on the floor and his hips are gyrating. His hands clench and unclench on the armrests and he's rhythmically bouncing his head against the back of the headrest.

“Sherlock...”

“I know.”

“You're... _fidgeting._ Or whatever the extreme form of fidgeting is. Break dancing maybe.”

“How long till we land?”

“Eighteen minutes.”

Sherlock moans.

The plane is already making it's descent, the gentle arch downwards where the lights of civilization form a scarce and inconsistent pattern on the darkened landscape of southern England at two-thirty in the morning. Coventry is a brighter cluster to the north and a little further onwards, Birmingham. Directly ahead of them, the constellations are breaking up into individual stars and Sherlock begins to make out the runway lights. He only half listens to Douglas's confirmation to ATC, but the controller's languid _“Golf-Tango-India, you're good to land,”_ sends a frisson of excitement running down his spine. Home.

_John._

He wants to yell as GERTI touches the runway, some wordless impulse that he doesn't understand the reasoning behind. As she settles gamely on her landing wheels and speeds down the runway, the blur of lights gradually sliding into coherency, he wants to throw off his seat belt and dance. His feet are bouncing almost violently against the floor, as if trying to break right through and escape.

GERTI slows and then they are taxiing, taking her home to rest. Sherlock isn't even paying attention anymore. The plane has lost all fascination, his entire attention focused on the tarmac, on the port-a-cabins, on the lights, the hangar, the sky. Just outside, so close that it very nearly makes no difference at all, is home.

As soon as the plane comes to a stop inside the hangar he is on his feet, tearing the seat belt off and clambering over the back of the seat. It's Douglas's hand that stops him, a tight grip on his arm. There is a warning on his face.

“I know it's exciting, but your MI6 agent is still out there.”

Sherlock clenches his teeth and makes a frustrated noise. “I have to go--”

“I know, I know. Just relax. An extra half hour won't kill you.”

_It could kill John,_ he thinks.

“Listen, just sit back, relax. Carolyn will let us know when she's gone then you can leave.”

“How long?”

“Thirty minutes? Just...sit. And stop trying to put a hole in my plane.”

He's tuned out already, retreating back into his head where he's already back in London, where the two hour drive is already behind him and he's standing in 221B with John across from him, slouched in his red chair with a cup of tea and a bad book. The book that Sherlock brought for him, all three hundred pages of boring, absurd plot and even more boring and absurd characters. But John will love it. He'll be utterly entranced and won't even notice Sherlock perched in his own chair across from him, eyes eagerly tracing every line, every fleeting expression, every nuance of his concentrated frown.

Sherlock hardly even notices that his hand has moved but becomes aware of his fingers tracing an unfamiliar weight in his pocket and he abruptly remembers the disposable phone. He pulls it out and stares at it.

In the background, Douglas is going through the post-landing checks. 

Sherlock pushes the power button. It sings itself to life.

The single contact is scrawled across the screen, a random arrangement of lines symbolising numbers that once input will signal a series of sound waves and maybe thousands of miles away, maybe a hundred feet away, someone will hear and respond to them. It's like astronomy. It doesn't matter. It's not important how it's done, just that it is.

Sherlock presses 'call.'

 


	21. Insomnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles evilly and strokes a cat*

This is the third night in a row that John hasn't slept and the world has officially gone blurry at the edges. He is sitting on the small sofa in his and Mary's flat and staring at the television on mute. The disposable cell phone that Mycroft had given him is cradled in his hand and is pressed against his thigh. The door between the sitting room and the bedroom where Mary sleeps, huddled so far on her side of the bed that she's in danger of falling off, is tightly closed.

Even when John isn't there with her she does this, as if trying to make herself as small a part of his life as possible. He's not sure what to think of this but it makes him feel unbearably guilty, which in turn makes him angry because he has no idea what he has to feel guilty for. For wanting Sherlock maybe. For being the kind of person who attracts the wrong kinds of people. For being the kind of person who it's okay to lie to. Who forgives people. Who needs to be lied to. For being the wrong kind of person in the first place. He's exhausted. His anger has long since been blurred over by the lack of sleep. He doesn't even know if he is still angry anymore. His entire life has been subsumed by a mad detective who isn't even on the continent anymore and a small rectangle of plastic and metal that refuses to ring. He stares at Sean Connery delivering some pithy line he can't hear and his eyes water. It stings when he blinks so he tries not to.

The phone is utterly still and yet he is hyper aware of it, has been since he got it two and half days ago. He had to charge it today. Got anxious staring at the screen while the little bar went slowly down from five to four to three and finally to two before he knew he'd have to do something. He thought of Sherlock trying to call him and missing it because the phone had slowly seeped itself dry while John waited. He had done it at the clinic, pale and slurring through his shift, half his mind on the stream of patients revolving facelessly through his office, the other half fixed on the little blinking battery bar in the corner of the silent screen.

He wishes he could do something other than wait. Wishes he knew what Sherlock is doing, why the sudden turn around, why he's risking coming home. John had resigned himself. For six days he had mourned, the familiar weight of it settling back in. He had thought, not so long ago, that he wouldn't have to do this again. But things change. Things always changed. Just like the first time, life with Sherlock just became too fast to maintain. With John or without? He'd made his choice. John wished he could hate him for it but he understands it, too. John's place is here, with the wife he doesn't know and the child he has no idea if he still wants. No, that's not fair. It isn't the baby's fault. This is his fault. He chose this woman. He gave her the child growing now between them. And now the best he can give her is silence and grudging tolerance. He would hate himself right now if he wasn't so tired.

The credits roll on whatever he had been watching. The credits end and the DVD menu pops up. He stares at it, trying to muster the energy to get up and change it, or even just reach over and turn it off. The play of light is hypnotic and he can't make himself move, though. After a while, the disc automatically starts playing again and John watches as the titles start once more.

_God, I should get up._

He doesn't.

He hasn't even realised he's fallen asleep until he's being woken up, a tickling vibration on the palm of his hand and for a full three seconds after he opens his eyes he has no idea where he is. Then suddenly he is on alert as he realises what it was that woke him up. He fumbles with the phone, almost dropping it, his fingers hitting the wrong key and almost hanging up. How many rings does this thing have before it disconnects? How long does he have? Is there a voicemail option?

_“Hello? Hello? There isn't anyone there. Hello?”_

He hasn't even realised he's managed to answer it until he hears the voice, tinny and unmistakeable coming from his hand. He isn't sure he isn't dreaming, unconscious on the sofa with Mary in the other room, James Bond silently saving the world while he sleeps. But that voice. Surely this isn't a dream.  _Please, please, please God let this not be a dream._

_“Hello? No one's answering.”_

“Hello!” he almost yells the word into the receiver, so excited he's forgotten about Mary sleeping only fifteen feet and one thin door away. “Oh, God, don't hang up. Hello? Are you there?”

There is silence.

He's too late. Oh my God, he's too late. Is there a number? No, untraceable, obviously. Stupid thought.

And then, from who only knows how many thousands of miles away, so quietly that he almost misses it:  _“John?”_

 


	22. Mary

_“John?”_

“Sherlock. Jesus Christ. Sherlock.”

_“John. John. John John Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn.”_

Just his name, just John's name, over and over again. He can hear the break in Sherlock's voice, the way it gets higher and higher until he can hardly hear it anymore, it's just a whisper on the other end of the line, full of disbelief and shock and John has to wonder if Sherlock had even realised who he was dialling, if hearing John's voice on the other end was a surprise.

“Sherlock. Jesus. Shut up. Sherlock, stop.”

_“John.”_

“Oh my God. Sherlock.”

They are both silent but John can hear Sherlock breathing, too quickly and too loudly on the other end of the line and he knows that he sounds the same. He's kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa though he doesn't remember that happening and he's almost bent double, clutching his stomach with the hand not clenched around the phone, as if trying to contain something, trying to keep himself from flying apart.  _Sherlock._

He says it out loud again: “Sherlock.” Because he has to. “Sherlock.”

_“John. John, I'm so sorry.”_

“Sherlock, no. No, shut up. Don't say sorry. What are you sorry about? Where are you?”

_“John, you need to get out. You need to go.”_

“What are you talking about?” But he's already struggling to his feet, his body already obeying the mandate that Sherlock's laid down even before his brain has fully processed it. “Go where? Where are you?”

_“Just listen, you need to get out. Go to Mycroft. Mycroft will help.”_

“I'm not going to bloody Mycroft. Just tell me where you are.”

_“Someone's coming. I screwed up, John. I'm so sorry, I screwed up. Someone's coming to get you. It's not safe. Mary's not safe.”_

“John.”

He jumps. And Mary's there, standing in the door of their bedroom and she's holding something in the hand at her side. The light is too dim and he can't make it out. In the flickering light of the television screen she's falling in and out of shadow, making it difficult to see the expression on her face.

“Mary, Jesus, you scared me.”

On the other end of the line Sherlock's gone silent.

Mary is staring at him, fair-haired and beautiful, just what he wanted, just what he needed. Until she wasn't anymore. “John, hang up the phone.”

“Mary, what--”

_“John, run.”_

“John, I'm so sorry about this.”

“Mary--”

_“John, get out of there. John, run! Listen to me! Run!”_

“John, please hang up the phone. I don't want to do this, but you should have told me about the phone. You shouldn't have talked to him.”

“Do you really think I wouldn't talk to him if I could?”

_“John, no, just get out! Get out!”_

“John, I'm sorry. But you shouldn't have talked to him. He shouldn't have tried to come back.” And she raises her hand and he can see what she's holding now, heavy and black, a dull weight in her hand, but familiar in that pose now. He's seen that gun before, though it wasn't pointing at him at the time.

He doesn't know what to say, he's staring at the spectre of his wife and has no idea how to address her, what words will work. The mound of her belly is between them, covered by the stretch of her nightshirt. It's powder blue with a small satin bow and there's lace at the short sleeves and it looks so incongruous, Mary with her hair flat and ruffled from sleep, her face stony and her eyes flat.

“Mary,” he says, but he doesn't know how to finish that. He doesn't know her at all, has no idea what words will work on this person, what words will only make it worse.

“John, put down the phone.”

“Mary, please. Stop. Just. Stop. We can talk about this. You don't have to do this.”

The look she gives him is full of pity and something else. Disdain. He almost expects her to roll her eyes next but she doesn't, keeps them trained on John, her hand steady, the gun ready, her finger poised.

_“John. John. John. John. John.”_

Sherlock is back to repeating his name, an endless litany that makes John simultaneously want to scream in frustration and weep out of sheer heartbreak because how long has he waited for his name from this man's lips spoken in just such a way, an unmistakeable prayer for forgiveness, for love. And  _oh God, five years, Sherlock. Five years. You couldn't have figured this out any sooner? Now that I'm about to die? Because I can't come back, Sherlock. I'm not you, I can't work miracles._

“John, put the phone down.”

“We can talk about this, Mary. Whatever it is. We can talk and I will listen. I swear, I will listen to you. I will not leave you, just put down the gun and talk to me.”

“Yes, Mary, put down the gun. We don't want to kill him just yet.”

The voice startles him. He hadn't even realised they weren't alone anymore. He goes to turn around, to see who this new player is but there's the barrel of a gun pressed against the small of his back now and he closes his eyes, annoyance battling with fear. There are too many guns in this room and they're all pointing at him.

Mary isn't looking at him anymore, staring at whoever it is over his shoulder and he recognises the fear in her face, too, but also the resignation and he realises that it is him that she's resigning, that she has already given up on him. It is that moment that he knows he is going to die.

The phone is still pressed against his ear and he can hear Sherlock, breathing hard on the other end, his voice an endless unconscious stream of  _“Johnjohnjohn I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John, I'm so sorry,”_ like a low murmured sigh given voice.

“Sherlock,” he says. And he wants to say more, is going to say more.

But he feels the jab in the muscle of his neck and John gives a wordless shout because by then it's too late. He knows what this is, he knows what comes next and the only thing he's aware of is the fact that he can no longer feel the phone in his hand and that finally, finally he can sleep.

 


	23. The Last Leg

“John. John! _John!”_

There is noise on the other end of the line, a scrabbling, scratching cacophony as the phone is dropped and something falls on it. There is the muffled sound of voices, a woman's and man's and Sherlock knows who they are, knows that his own frantic cry is audible on the other end, but he doesn't care. He is shouting John's name into the cheap disposable phone and he knows that Douglas is staring at him, his eyes wide with alarm, frozen mid-posture, half out of his seat.

“John! John! John!”

_“...where is..”_

_“...John...what's...”_

_“...find the damn thing...”_

Snippets of conversation, meaningless, telling him nothing about what's happened to John, why the phone was dropped, if he's still alive and for how long.

“John!”

_“Ah, Mr Holmes.”_

He freezes. He is breathing hard, his face twisted into a grimace half way between rage and terror. He can hear the blood pulsing, the force of its rush almost drowning out everything else, but he remembers that sibilant voice and he strains, knowing that every thread of his despair is obvious on the other end of the line.

_“What a wonderful surprise to hear from you again.”_

“What have you done to him, Moran.”

_“Does it bother you? Hearing his last moments, knowing there's nothing you can do?”_

The world compresses inside his head and the entire universe goes silent. _No. No. No no no no nonononononono._

_“He's not dead yet, Mr Holmes.”_

“What--?”

_“Do you think I would make it that easy for him? No. I want him to see you crying. Will you do that for him? Cry? As each drop of blood is dragged from his struggling body? Every breath pulled screaming from his lungs? The least you can do for him is weep, Mr Holmes.”_

“Stop calling me that.”

_“Come and find us. Just don't take too long. I don't know for how long I will be able to restrain myself.”_

The line goes dead and for a second Sherlock just stares at the phone in his hand as though it will start talking on its own, explain to him what just happened, as though it has some mirror on the other end of the line, some connection that will allow him to see. But it's silent and dead, except for the buzz of the dial tone that does nothing but emphasise his own uselessness. How had he let this happen?

“Sherlock?”

He looks up. He's almost forgotten that Douglas is here. In the open frame of the flight deck door, Carolyn and Arthur are standing and staring at him with eyes gone wide with shock. He hadn't even noticed them come in.

“I need to get to London,” he says.

Carolyn seems almost a stranger with her face not pursed in an angry scowl. All haughtiness has left her and she looks pale and uncertain, watching Sherlock with an expression too near to pity.

“Stop it,” he snaps, before he can stop himself. “Stop looking like that.”

“Sherlock--” For the first time she uses his given name and he's out of his seat and snarling, throwing the phone at the wall of the flight deck with a harsh, aborted movement. It cracks and shatters, several pieces ricocheting off the wall.

“No!” he shouts. “Don't you dare. Don't you dare pity me. If you pity me...” he trails off. He can't finish that sentence.

“Sherlock.”

He looks at Douglas. The First Officer is watching him and his expression is careful but there's no sympathy in it, rather it's set in an odd sort of way that makes something in Sherlock's stomach settle.

“Did they kill him? Is John dead?” It's matter-of-fact, slightly urgent, and Sherlock is grateful that Douglas isn't trying to pad around the word carefully.

He shakes his head. “They took him. They didn't kill him, but they took him. They're going to kill him, though.”

“What are they waiting for?” Carolyn asks, her voice quiet and cautious, everything about her hesitant now.

Sherlock feels nausea prickling at the back of his throat. “Me.”

There's a silence.

“So, we need to get to London,” Douglas says and Sherlock doesn't miss the _'we'_ but he's too impatient to care, too focused on the goal because Douglas is right. He needs to get to London and this ridiculous excuse for an airline crew is the only thing that's going to get him there.

Carolyn scoffs. “If we go to London we're walking right into their trap.”

“What other choice is there? Sherlock, we'll go in my car. It's the fastest one we've got. It's barely three in the morning, there'll be no traffic. We can do it in an hour as long as you don't mind breaking a few laws along the way.”

Sherlock doesn't say anything, can't. His throat is closing up, he can hardly breathe. He knows he should feel grateful but all he can think about is John and how even an hour is far too long. But he nods, because there's nothing else to do. He makes to rise and even as he does Carolyn's sigh, loud and exaggerated, cuts into the air.

“Really, for two self-proclaimed geniuses you really are tiresomely stupid. You do both realise we're standing in a plane?” She steps forward, stretching between Douglas and Sherlock and reaching for the radio.

“Oh, Ca-a-arl!” she singsongs into it.

It crackles for a moment before settling and the voice from the tower breaks through.

_“Good morning, MJN. Do you require assistance with disembarking or are you sleeping in the plane tonight?”_

“How lovely to hear from you, too, Carl. I'd like to request a take off for ten minutes time. Douglas here will be over in just a tick with the flight plan.”

_“Take off? Where are you going? You just got in.”_

“London. Where else would we be going at three in the morning but the hub of life and lights that is the capital city of this great nation?”

_“Bed, I should think. Alright, ten minutes. Tell Douglas to hurry up. Over and out.”_

Douglas is staring at Carolyn as though she's grown a second head. She is flushed and trying not to meet anyone's eyes. “You heard the man, First Officer Richardson. Ten minutes. Move out!”

A grin slowly creeps upwards along his mouth until Douglas's face is split and he is standing before his chair with a hand at his forehead. “Yes, ma'am.”

“And don't call me _'ma'am.'_ What an odious, simpering word.”

Sherlock is in a daze. He can hardly understand what's happening and everything feels slow and sluggish. The world comes at him from the other side of a glass door, muffled and distorted. He stares at Carolyn, utterly at a loss.

“Why?” he says.

There's a moment when the pity is back, but it's not because of John, it's not the pity of _“oh no, your best friend is dead and you never got to say goodbye,”_ but rather the more familiar _“you poor thing, how are you such an idiot?”_ And he can accept that pity, he's used to it, so he's not even surprised when her answer is “Why ever not?”

“Wait. Wait wait wait.”

They all stop. Arthur is standing just behind his mother, a look of utter confusion on his wide, imbecilic face.

“Well?” Douglas demands impatiently. He is clambering over the seat, trying to get out of the flight deck and Arthur is standing in the doorway, seemingly frozen to the spot as a thought chases itself sluggishly over his face.

“Just...” Arthur is staring at them all, his gaze flickering between them and it finally comes to rest on Sherlock, his eyes huge and incredulous. “Why are you all calling Captain Crieff 'Sherlock'?”


	24. Gatwick

Thirty minutes later GERTI is circling around London-Gatwick and Douglas is on the radio talking to ATC trying to find out what the delay is. Behind him, Sherlock is aware of Arthur's voice filtering in from the cabin.

“Sherlock Holmes! But you said he was Captain Crieff!”

“Yes, Arthur, we lied,” Carolyn's long-suffering tone explains.

“But why? And I just realised, Mrs Assaf was a huge fan! Can you imagine if she'd known? She would have been so excited! Why didn't you tell her when I told you about it?”

“Because, dearest heart, it is a secret. No one can know that Captain Crieff is actually Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?”

“Well, no. Why can't they know?”

“Because it's a secret.”

“Yeah, but...why?”

Sherlock finds himself gritting his teeth and he makes himself tune them out. He had been trying to distract himself from the increasing frustration in Douglas's voice but comes to the conclusion that even the ATC's tacit refusal to let them land is better than listening to Arthur reasoning himself to comprehension.

“Tower, requesting estimated landing time, over.”

_“Golf-Tango-India, estimate for landing is thirty minutes. Just like it was at the beginning of this conversation. Over.”_

“Tower, requesting priority landing, over.”

_“State your reason. Over.”_

“There is the smell of smoke in the flight deck.”

There is a longer than normal pause and Sherlock stares at Douglas, who is frowning at the empty air outside as if it's personally offended him. Then the radio crackles again.

_“Golf-Tango-India, proceed to runway sixteen. Emergency crew are on standby. Over.”_

“Roger. Golf-Tango-India proceeding to runway sixteen. Over and out.”

Sherlock stares at Douglas as the First Officer starts to bring the plane around. GERTI banks sharply and they start to lose altitude. From the cabin there is the sound of an excited whoop.

“I love landings!” Arthur's voice shouts.

“What happens when we land and there's no smoke?” Sherlock asks.

“Look in the small pocket of my bag, would you?”

Sherlock unbuckles his seat belt and clambers over his seat. The angle of descent makes it difficult to balance but he keeps one hand on the back of his seat and opens the small locker with the other. Douglas's bag is beside his own appropriated leather satchel and he spots the small outside pocket immediately. He flips it open and finds a match book. He smirks, shutting the locker with a clang and climbing back into the pilot's chair.

“Would you like to do the honours?” Douglas asks with a grin.

Sherlock doesn't bother answering, flipping the book open and tearing one of the paper matches out. He strikes it and it blazes on the first try. The acrid scent of burning phosphorus leaps into the air, faint but present and clearly made by a match being struck. Sherlock frowns slightly before bringing the quickly extinguishing match to the rest of the book. With a hiss, the rest of the matches blaze up in a row, the cardboard book catching with it. Black smoke flares in the flight deck and from beside him Douglas gives a sudden shout of alarm.

“What are you doing!” he demands at the same time that Carolyn's voice floats in from the cabin, shrill and panicked.

“What's happening in there? Why do I smell smoke? Douglas!”

Sherlock doesn't answer. The fire starts to creep too close to his fingers so he quickly tosses the whole thing into his water glass where it splutters and hisses, leaving the cabin hazy with smoke. The scent of phosphorus is indistinguishable against the overall reek.

“What on earth are you doing!” Douglas is almost shouting. “What possible reason could you have had for thinking that was a good idea?”

“The scent of phosphorus on a match head is extremely easy to identify. Though I'm unfamiliar with the laws governing landing procedures, I imagine the smell of phosphorus when one happens to be in possession of a match book and after one has already revealed one's impatience for landing, might make the on-stand emergency crew slightly suspicious.”

Douglas is silent but the scowl hasn't gone away. The lights of the runway are coming up fast and Gatwick, even at three forty-five in the morning, is a considerably more lively place than Fitton. Planes reduced to the size of children's toys are swiftly growing larger and the flight deck is steadily growing brighter with the oncoming lights from the ground.

“I'll dispose of the ash and water in the toilet as soon as we touch ground.”

“Douglas! I asked you what's happening!” Carolyn's voice comes again, less panicked but more irritated.

“Nothing, Carolyn!” Douglas shouts back. “Just a bit of smoke in the flight deck.”

“Smoke!”

“Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of an expediency.”

“You and your expediencies!”

“Yes, well. They expediate everything so nicely.”

“I don't think that's a word,” Sherlock says.

Douglas scowls and doesn't answer.

The lights grow closer until they are sitting on top of London and the metropolis spreads out around them, an ocean of light taking over all horizons. GERTI meets the runway with a slight bounce and Sherlock sniffs critically.

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“I didn't say anything.”

They taxi to a stop and Douglas brings the plane around onto the tarmac where a ground grew is waiting and the red lights of the emergency vehicles are flashing.

“Bloody hell,” Douglas murmurs. “I didn't think of the fuss. I need to stay and deal with this.”

Sherlock is out of his seat before the plane's even stopped. He dives into the toilet and tips the water glass into the basin, taking care to rinse out the ashy residue and scrub the soot off the edges. He drops the glass into the galley sink as he passes through and as he does so he feels the reverberations of the cabin lock being opened and the steps descending. The noise of the night infiltrates the plane and Carolyn is already calling out reassurances as the emergency crew crowds the door. Douglas is standing in the flight deck door with Sherlock's bag in one hand and a mobile in the other.

Sherlock takes the bag and stares at the mobile.

“Mine,” Douglas says. “Carolyn's number is in there. We can't leave the plane till ground crew's checked her over.”

“I don't need your mobile.”

“Take the blasted phone, Sherlock. You owe me this.”

Sherlock scowls and snatches it.

“Where are you going first?”

“John and Mary's flat. I need a clue. Moran wants me to find him, he'll have left something to show me where to go.”

“What's the address?”

Sherlock hesitates but the sound of the ground crew is getting louder as Carolyn's delaying tactics begin to fail and Douglas's face is set and stubborn. So Sherlock tells him, and he doesn't have time to regret it as the first of the emergency crew pushes their way onto the plane and Douglas is swept off to make their excuses.

 


	25. Directions

The flat is locked when he arrives and Sherlock is unsure how to take that. There's a light filtering in from under the door, a flickering, uneven blue. He picks the lock easily, not even trying to be quiet, and pushes the door open as soon as the catch is released.

The television is on but muted and Sherlock stares at the silent screen, recognising the film that plays. John's. Sherlock knows that film. He remembers watching it together, side by side on the sofa in 221B, John only half absorbed in the explosions and improbable villains as his eyes flickered back and forth between the screen and Sherlock at his side, and Sherlock, his feet tucked under him and his body compressed, pretending he didn't notice. It feels like years.

_It is years._

He frowns at himself. Sentiment. He doesn't have time, not now. After. After, when all this is done. When all this is done there will be time.

He flicks on the ceiling light and the shadows are illuminated. The glow of the telly is subsumed and Sherlock turns his back to it, pretending he doesn't see.

The red box on the kitchen bar catches his eye immediately. It's red papered cardboard approximately ten inches long and six inches wide, about three inches high with a thick gold ribbon tying it closed, it's ends knotted in a neat bow. When he picks it up it's disconcertingly light and whatever's inside shifts loosely about.

He tugs at a shimmering golden end and the ribbon comes undone, unravelling from around the box and falling to the worktop with a soft shuffle of satin. He lifts the lid and peers inside.

Breadcrumbs.

_Oh, dull._

 

He wonders if it was Moran himself who had delivered them that first time, as well, but it's unimportant. He knows where to go.

 

There's a magnetised pad of paper on the fridge with the beginnings of a shopping list scrawled on it. He recognises John's handwriting and for a moment his gaze lingers, reading off the list of things deemed necessary by ordinary people. _Potatoes. Fairy liquid. Butter. Toast. Cheddar. Cucumber. Wine. Electrical_ _tape._

It's wholly unintentional that when he tears off the top sheet he folds it up and puts it in his pocket. He doesn't understand why he does it. _Sentiment._ But he let's it slide and tears off the second blank sheet and scribbles a quick note, leaving it on the worktop next to the box with the breadcrumbs.

He hesitates as he turns to leave. He can't hear it and he can't see it, but he's aware of the faint electrical buzz that the telly emits. He thinks of John's film playing, left to be discovered by a stranger, and he turns back. Without looking at the screen he reaches for the remote, lying next to the clear indent in the sofa and presses the power button. Though he hasn't looked, he's aware when silence returns and the screen stops moving.

With a last firm nod at the empty indentation in the sofa, he turns around and leaves the flat, shutting the door behind him.

 


	26. Stealth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm such a loser. No seriously. Okay, so I'm getting my Sherlock clues completely mixed up which is ridiculous considering how many times I've watched the damn show. The previous chapter it's supposed to be breadcrumbs that Sherlock finds in the box on the table, not a gingerbread man.
> 
> And this is why people have betas. *Sigh* Going back to fix it because I fail :(

Sherlock remembers the warehouse, its edges blocky and shadowed on the other side of the car park, fighting for definition against the dark. It's almost five in the morning now but it's still pitch black outside and somehow it feels like it's gotten colder. He is wearing only the polyester jacket from the pilot's uniform and he is shivering, his fingers numb inside his pockets.

There is no movement, no glimmer of light or furtive shifting in the darkness at the base of the abandoned building, and Sherlock feels the beginnings of panic. What if he's wrong? What if this is not where the trail leads? But he can't think about that now. He can't think about what will happen if he's mistaken, if he's too late. He stares at the warehouse, remembering the last time he was here, years ago, with John and Lestrade and the nameless, forgettable faces of NSY. Children; candy wrappers laced with mercury; a candle that was still hot. He is trying to remember the details but it's fuzzy now and he's having trouble bringing it to the front of his mind. It was so long ago and so much has happened in between, coming to take its place in the stairwells and corridors of his mind.

It is almost silent. Faintly, from very far away, the sound of a car passing on the distant road. The warehouse is sheltered by trees on all sides and the world trickles through to it only slowly. Sherlock knows he needs to move but he's afraid.

_Afraid?_

Yes. It's definitely fear he feels weighing like a stone at the pit of his stomach. The fear of being in the wrong place. The fear of being too late. The fear of having lost. The fear of having fought so hard only to fail once again. Standing here, the warehouse looming, a rectangular shadow only yards away, Sherlock fears that as soon as he takes a step forwards he will go from being  _not wrong yet_ to just plain  _wrong._ And he is terrified.

_Move, Sherlock. Just go._

He takes the first step out of the trees and into the relative brightness of the concrete car park. Nothing separates him from the door. There is nothing to stop him. No shouts out of the darkness. No click of a gun being cocked, no searing heat of a bullet out of nowhere. He is more than halfway expecting it and when he reaches the metal door of the building without even a telltale movement from the shadows, he is quivering with tension.

He tries the door and is simultaneously worried and relieved when he finds it's unlocked. The latch clicks and it is far too loud in the pre-dawn silence of the abandoned January morning. He doesn't hesitate, though. He knows that by now they're aware of him.

_If they're here._

_Shut up, Sherlock._

The door opens to more darkness and it takes Sherlock's eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, he sees the hint of light, far inside and hidden by corners and pillars. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

He walks forward, not trying to hide. Moran had issued the invitation himself and they're fools if they weren't aware of his presence the moment the taxi had dropped him in front of the chained gate a quarter of a mile away _._ All the same, he is careful about where he puts his feet, making his footfalls as silent as possible.

The light is drawing nearer and he recognises the area now. The place was swept when SOCO had done their official investigation, all evidence of the ambassador's childrens' captivity taken for evidence or cleaned away. But he knows it, the lost memories slowly filtering back, becoming sharper until he remembers the very ground they had been crouching on when they had been found.

The light is near now and he keeps going, padding silently through pillars and around defunct machinery, the darkness almost impenetrable around him except for the single haze of brightness ahead. Until suddenly the maze falls away and he is standing in an open area, high roofed and surrounded by steel and concrete and topped by filthy glass. In the very centre there is a table and on it a single lamp. Beside it, a heavy chair where there is a figure, slumped down and circled with restraints.

_John._

_John._

_Oh God, John._

He can feel his mind stutter to a stop again, overcome by sheer relief. He can see John's chest, clad in a thin t-shirt, moving reassuringly up and down. He is pale and shivering, wearing nothing apart from the tattered t-shirt but his thin sleep trousers and a pair of socks. But he is alive. He is alive. He is very much alive.

Sherlock hasn't even realised that he's started to move until he's suddenly in the circle of light and John is getting closer. A few more steps and he will be able to touch him, hold him, see every wrinkle and indent in that familiar face, ever strand of grey hair in that tousled head, every scar and imperfection.

Sherlock is ten steps away when John raises his head and looks straight up into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock has only the brief widening of eyes as blue as the Egyptian sky to serve as a warning and by then it's too late. He feels the pressure in the small of his back and stops.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

He wants to smile. Has to smile. Because he knew. He knew. This is not a surprise to him, but still he can feel the skip of his heart and the brief hitch in his breath.

“Hello, Mary,” he says.

 


	27. Hands Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's the chapter of exposition. I tried to keep it from reading too much like a dry account so let me know if anything's unclear. Some things are necessarily so, just because holy shit I don't know this season made no sense to me, but I did my best to connect the giant gaps we were given. Also, I started this story before all the glorious metas regarding Mycroft and his possible involvement with Moriarty came out, which would have made connecting the dots so much easier, but I didn't want to switch tracks half way in for obvious reasons and honestly that's just like a whole different universe from the one I was working in. So yeah. Good luck....!

They are staring at each other, ten feet between them. The chair that Sherlock is tied to is made of heavy wood, squarely built and awkward to move. He is tightly restrained at his chest, his arms crossed behind his back and bound to the wooden back. His legs are woven to the chairs legs in firm and complicated knots and a leather belt passes over his thighs and beneath the bottom of the seat. Sherlock is very aware that he's not going anywhere.

John is directly across from him, his face slack and his eyes hazy. He is clearly recovering from some kind of drug, but there is a knot at the side of his head from which there is a thin stream of dried blood that tells Sherlock he fought and Sherlock feels a stab of fierce pride.

“John.”

John makes a noise somewhere between a moan and grunt and he makes an effort to lift his head high enough to focus his gaze on Sherlock across from him.

“H'lo.”

They are tied up in an abandoned warehouse, likely about to die. Moran is still nowhere to be seen but Mary is a lighter patch in the nearby shadows and the sound of movement marks the presence of the two unnecessarily enormous gunmen that had only minutes before tightened the ropes around Sherlock's arms before stalking off to prowl the shadows. John is bleeding and half-drugged and almost every muscle in Sherlock's body will soon be cramped beyond bearing.

And for all that, Sherlock can feel the grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, splitting his face until he is chuckling deep in his chest, his ribs pressing against his restraints and making it hard to get his breath.

John stares at him, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, but Sherlock sees the start of the smile in his eyes and it is barely ten seconds later that John is giggling, slumping forward against the rope around his chest, barely able to concentrate on staying upright as the helpless ripple of his laughter joins with the deeper vein of Sherlock's.

“Oh God, we're going to die,” John says as soon as he is able, and Sherlock can see where his eyes have slightly brightened, losing some of their shadow as the drug begins to wear off.

“Probably,” Sherlock agrees, and just like that they are laughing again, full bellied shouts of mirth that leave them gasping for breath and blinking away tears. Mary has stepped out of the shadows and is staring at them, her eyes narrow and the hand that's not holding her gun flexing at her side.

“Oh my God,” John says. “Oh my God.” He is still grinning as he says it, though. He doesn't even glance at Mary, his eyes bright and blinking at the tears. He is staring at Sherlock, his expression a medley of amazement, joy and disbelief and Sherlock can hardly comprehend it.

“You're not angry?” he asks.

John snorts. “Angry? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“That's a 'no' then...?”

Just like that, all amusement drains from John. His entire body goes tense and for a moment he stares right at Sherlock, their eyes meeting across the distance in a way Sherlock has never remembered them meeting before. There is so much in that glance, so much that he can't even understand it all, just knows that this is important, that this is something that he's needed for a far longer time than he's been willing to admit to himself. John is staring at him as if he's the entire universe, as if he is everything, as if nothing else exists outside of him. “You came back,” he says.

Mary makes a sound, it's half way between a cough a laugh. It's an ugly sound, but it pulls them out of each other and for the first time since Sherlock arrived John shifts his glance to look at his wife.

She is standing square on the floor between them, her shoulders back and her entire body tight. She is staring at John, unflinching, and the look John levels at her is so bland it's clearly a mask.

“Sorry?” he says impatiently.

“You do know why you're here, right?”

“Is this the part where we talk about how you drugged and kidnapped me?”

The look on her face is cold and almost entirely without emotion, but there is the briefest moment as her nostrils flare and her jaw tenses before she relaxes again. It's over in a heartbeat but Sherlock sees it and he thinks John, staring straight into a face he's spent a year and a half memorising, will have seen it, too.

When Mary speaks her voice is level, almost without intonation, but the edges are cracking and the tension ratcheting through her body is unmistakable.

“He was supposed to die,” she says. She doesn't even look at Sherlock when she says this, her eyes fixed on John. “That's why I was there, to make sure he didn't come back. To make sure it wasn't just a trick. I was there _for months,_ John. I watched you. I kept you safe. I loved you. And I didn't force you to love me back. You did that on your own.”

There is the hint of a smile on John's face, a small, heartbreaking thing. “I did. I did love you, Mary.”

“We were supposed to be together. And we would have been. But he couldn't stay dead and that wasn't my fault. I didn't kill him right away, you know that. But then Moran was back in touch and Magnussen kept popping up wherever I looked _._ Everywhere, there he was, asking me why I hadn't done it yet, making sure I knew that Moran was getting impatient, that he was beginning to get angry. What else was I supposed to do? Magnussen set up the situation in the office and I took care of Sherlock.” For a brief moment her face is filled with bitterness. “He didn't die.”

John's voice is terse. “Close enough.”

“No. It wasn't. We could have been together, John. We would have been fine if he had just stayed dead. Even after Christmas, God, we would have been okay, wouldn't we have? We were fine at Christmas, John.” Her mask is completely gone now and for the first time that night there is the face of the woman that John had married, open and desperate to believe, her expression imploring. She is crying and there is nothing in John that doesn't believe that her tears are real.

“Mary.” He doesn't know why he says, how he means to go on, but it doesn't matter because she stops him.

“No.” She holds out a hand, the one with the gun, but she's not pointing it at him, merely warding him off, keeping him silent. She swipes at her tears with her other hand, smearing them across her face. “No, we could have done this. Even after Christmas if he had just stayed gone like he was supposed to. Moran was happy. He was grateful. He thought he would be able to deal with Sherlock himself and he was going to leave us alone. We could have done this, John. But he came back. He messed this up for us. Again. He did this to us again.”

John is staring at her and there is horror and pity in his eyes and Mary sees it and her breath gives a hitch. She looks at him, her face settling back into its cold mask, the one that so easily strips all humanity from her expression. 

“You knew,” she says, the certainty drawn on her face. “About Moriarty. You knew.”

John shrugs, a movement of studied carelessness, but his tension is betrayed by the tightness of the lines around his eyes.

“When,” she demands. “When did you know.”

“November.”

“November.”

“Somewhere around there.”

“But Christmas...”

“Oh, right. That. Yes. I lied.”

She doesn't say anything, she is staring at him and the cracks are beginning to show again, the colour draining from her face and her expression fighting its way into a sneer that sits somewhere between rage and disgust.

“See, the whole thing where you shot Sherlock sort of made us suspicious.”

“You really didn't cover your tracks very well, Miss Morstan,” Sherlock says, speaking for the first time but no one looks at him, John and Mary utterly fixated on each other.

Mary's mouth moves but it's a second before any sound comes out. “Watson,” she says.

John says nothing, just stares at her.

“Mycroft really was unforgivably lazy,” Sherlock says. He is watching her closely, hyper-aware of the gun at her side. “He knew about your stint with the CIA, of course. Somehow he managed to miss the entire last five years and your adventures as Moriarty's little pet. But that's Jim for you. Thorough. Always so good at covering his tracks.”

“No.” She turns her gaze onto Sherlock for the first time since she had watched him being tied up but Sherlock ignores her, refuses the denial.

“We did our research, though, after you shot me.” he continues. “Rather showed your hand there. Careless. You should have aimed for the head. Things got a little bit out of hand at Appledore, of course, but by then I had figured it out. The chain of command. Moriarty, then Moran, then Magnussen, and down at the lowly bottom, you. Moriarty did us all the favour of removing himself, but I needed some way to communicate with Moran, convince him to leave John alone, leave him out of this. And, of course, you. You had to be kept safe.” His eyes flicker down to Mary's distended belly. “For now, anyway. So I shot Magnussen. My message to Moran. Of course, I didn't know his name at that point, I only knew he existed and that the game Moriarty had started wasn't done. As for you, John knew what you were. And he wasn't in danger while you still had a use for him. As long as I was out of the way, exiled or dead, you two would be left alone, safe. Elegant, don't you think?”

“Psychotic,” John mutters, but there is an exasperated smile on his face when Sherlock flickers his gaze over and almost against his will he finds his own lips curling up in sympathy. He wonders if this will always be the case, if his own body will always echo John's now. But then again, _always_ doesn't seem to be a very long time at the moment.

Mary is staring at them, at the smiles on their lips, at the glance passing between them, and it takes barely a second for her to make her decision. The gun is up and it's pointing at Sherlock, at the space between his eyes, because this time there are no chances, no miracles. 

John is staring at Sherlock, at the verdigris eyes fixed on his, on the small smile on Sherlock's lips and he knows, he knows this is it. This is it. He knows Mary is there, is utterly aware of her presence, but it is Sherlock that dominates his sight, dominates everything, and he knows that he won't have another chance again. So he does it. Because he has to and because he wants to.

“Sherlock,” John says. “I love you.”

 


	28. Crashing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. This was not meant to take this long. I can't even pretend to have a good excuse because I even wrote a whole other fic in the meantime. Please don't hate me. Here, have a chapter instead!

It is like the world turns off. A switch is hit and everything is silent. For a full ten seconds no one moves. Sherlock doesn't even breathe. He is staring at John, blonde hair gone grey, blue eyes the same colour as the night sky half a world away. He remembers flying into the void, the emptiness, the eternity, the utter lack of control, the absolute loss of all limits and borders and he looks at John and he feels it again, the terror, the disbelief, falling and flying all at once. Sherlock is lost and he has no idea how to find his way back.

It's Mary who breaks the silence, a sharp inhalation that is part gasp, part laugh. Her eyes have gone wide and they grow wider as Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, because this is it, he knows this is it.

“John. John. I lo--”

“No,” Mary interrupts, panic at the edge of her voice, and he can see the tightening of the muscle that will spell his end. He has seconds–less than seconds–and John will watch him die. There are no more miracles left.

“Miss Morstan, if you please.”

The voice seems to come out of nowhere, echoing across the empty space of the warehouse floor, bouncing between pillars and machines, unable to settle. The effect on Mary is instantaneous, a sudden stiffening of her spine, the muscles of her arm, her hand, her finger, halting so suddenly it's almost convulsive.

“You said I could help,” Mary says. She hasn't turned around, her eyes still fixed on Sherlock but the words are clearly directed at Moran, sliding into the small circle of light like an oil patch or a leak.

“And you can. Doctor Watson is yours, Miss Morstan. Mr Holmes belongs to me.”

There is no expression on Mary's face but her eyes flicker to John once and after a moment in which no one moves she nods, lowering the gun, and every muscle in her body seems to relax as she steps back, away from the two men she stands between. “Fine,” she agrees.

It is a reprieve and one that Sherlock takes a moment to adjust to. He blinks, unsure, because John has just said that he loves him and now, suddenly, they're no longer about to die. He is still staring at John and he sees a similar awareness on John's face, the slow bleed of colour onto his complexion and a subtle twitch that betrays his annoyance at them both still being alive. Sherlock can't even help it: he grins. John stares at him for a second, and slowly, the colour growing deeper, he grins back.

“You two are beautiful,” Moran says. He has taken Mary's place, standing between them and Sherlock looks at him. Black shoes a size too small; a shirt that pulls at his chest with a tie that tries to cover the gaps in the buttons; a jacket that is too tight with sleeves that don't quite reach his wrists and trousers that leave his ankles uncovered. It is all expensive, though, silk blends and fine leather, and it takes Sherlock a minute to realise: Westwood. These are not Moran's clothes.

Moran's dark eyes are vacillating slowly between Sherlock and John, as if trying to calculate a complex formula. “You know, it's almost a shame to separate you,” he says. “You should die together. I can see that that's proper. I'm not blind.” His eyes leave John, whose own gaze hasn't moved from Sherlock. “But I like this, too,” Moran says and he takes a small pace towards Sherlock. “You know, Mr Holmes, I was so upset when you managed to escape me in Cairo. But I think this is better in the end, don't you agree? This way, John Watson himself can see you crying, watch you helpless, knowing that if you'd been a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, he wouldn't have to die. Really, I thank you Mr Holmes, for going through all this trouble to bring yourself here. See, had you not been here I wouldn't have had the chance to draw this out so much. He could have been finished with all this pain. But since you've been so obliging as to present yourself, I really can't be blamed for accepting the lavish indulgence of your generous gift.” He gives John one last look, a puzzle suddenly solved, and then steps away and gestures to Mary. “Go ahead, Miss Morstan. You were promised.”

Sherlock's head swivels towards her and he watches as she clicks the safety and puts away the gun, the heavy shoulder holster an incongruous blazon across the pale blue jumper and the pastel pink of her nightdress peeking out from under it, the hastily donned grey jogging bottoms and the rubber-soled running shoes almost comical. Sherlock has a moment in which he imagines the scene from outside: Mary with her gun and her sleep wear; Moran in another man's badly fitted clothes; John bare-footed and rumpled from bed; Sherlock trussed up in his pilot's uniform. His eyes meet John's and something of his thoughts must translate because he smiles, the slightest curve of those lips that Sherlock wishes he had taken more time to memorise because Mary is there now, standing behind John with a knife in her hands.

She isn't looking at Sherlock, but staring down at the top of John's head and there is a look on her face like regret, or pity. Sherlock's not sure which, but he can feel the way his heart is beating, the sudden increase in the tempo of his blood as the knife lowers and he is watching it, the flat of the blade dull, the lamp glare highlighting the waves of the folded steel almost a beautiful thing. But the edge is bright and sharp and it's close, too close to John and the pale, soft skin of his neck. He can feel his own horror, greater than that of the universe opening up, because John, John is not of the universe. John  _is_ the universe. And when that knife makes contact it won't be another crime to solve, another mystery to puzzle out. It will be gravity giving up and the plane soaring into space.

It's hard to breathe, his chest pressing against the rope and he knows he is struggling and that it's exactly what Moran wants but he can't help it, the extension and contraction of muscle completely involuntary, the sliding of joints and the angling of bone something that is happening in spite of whatever his mind is telling the rest of him to do. He is panting and his teeth are in a snarl and for the first time since that blade appeared Sherlock takes his eyes from it and looks at John and he freezes because that look, that look is enough to kill him. It is wide open, it is the universe looking back at him, the stars gone still, the sun blazing and collapsing and expanding and Sherlock can feel himself catch fire and fall. It is telling him goodbye.

There is a moment, a heartbeat of a moment in which the edge of the knife is indented against soft flesh, and then it breaks and Sherlock can see the line of red welling up. She doesn't cut deep, she does not mean to kill him like this, but Sherlock watches, following its curve as it draws lines in John Watson's skin, the tip sliding downwards to the edge of his collar and then ripping through. She is leaning over him and John is utterly silent, unmoving, his eyes hard and he is staring at Sherlock as his nostrils dilate and contract, the breath rushing through them in the even pattern of a soldier enduring pain. Sherlock wants to speak but there's nothing he can say. He watches the lines expanding and the deeper dip as the blade reaches John's rib cage and digs in, then slide upwards again and draws over the raised knot of his nipple, deliberately slicing it in two and for the first time John flinches and Sherlock cries out.

“I love you,” he blurts and he can feel that his face is wet. “I love you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. John, I'm so sorry. I love you.”

In three steps Moran is beside him and with a surge of his open hand he slaps him, a hard, stinging contact that sends Sherlock reeling, but the chair is heavy and it remains steady on the floor. Before he can recover he feels himself being grabbed, two hands twisting roughly in his hair and dragging his head around, Moran's face snarling and contorted pressed up to his.

“Difficult, is it? Watching? Knowing that your pet will die? Are you angry, Sherlock? Filled with rage? Does it  _hurt?”_

Sherlock doesn't say a word, blinks as his eyes fight for focus, and a moment later Moran is pushing him away again, striding across the room, his too-small trousers pulling at every step until he is at the very edge of the light and he spins around, facing Sherlock again, his face gone cold. “I don't like to play, not like James did. Perhaps you're lucky today, Mr Holmes, you and your doctor. I will let him die quickly after all.” He raises a hand, looking to Mary and Sherlock is fighting again, straining to stand. He can hear himself shouting and he is staring wide-eyed and frantic at John and the line of red in the chest he doesn't know, has never had a chance to learn, and now he never will, not without the blood and the two swirling letters etched into his skin like a brand:  _MW._ He is screaming so loudly and John just stares and there is a smile on his quiet face.

And then too many things happen at once. Mary looks away and makes a sound that is never completed, because John is suddenly moving, his hands ripping free and he is throwing his body backwards with a force that tips the chair back, crashing into her and throwing her across the floor with a cry. The knife had been sheathed in favour of her gun and now it goes skittering across the floor, discharging with a sound that makes Sherlock think the ceiling's about to cave in. Mary gives a cry, flinching involuntarily from the sound and John, sprawled in an awkward heap and half restrained by the wooden chair, grabs at the handle of the knife at her belt and before she even knows what's happening he has it at her neck. He is twisted and awkward with almost no leverage but the tip is at the underside of her chin and there is a trickle of blood where it has broken skin.

In a state of utter confusion, Sherlock looks to where Moran is standing and sees instead a dark crumpled heap on the concrete floor. And standing over him there is someone else, and for a moment Sherlock is almost unable to process it. The grey hair, the polyester uniform, the stout, unexpected form with an expression that speaks of murder and a long steel pipe in a firm and wrinkled hand.

“Carolyn,” Sherlock says.

 


	29. Falling

“You idiot!” Carolyn Knapp-Shappey says and her entire form is quivering in outrage. “You utter imbecile. How did you let this happen? How did this happen? What is wrong with you?”

“Hello, Carolyn,” Sherlock says.

She ignores him, her arms stiff with indignation and her face flushed with choler. “Do you think leaving a note somehow erases the fact that you walked into a bloody trap without any backup?” she demands. “Do you think it excuses you from the fact that you almost got yourself killed? What were you thinking? What part of your enormous, clever, overinflated brain said 'oh, here's an idea! I'll just go get myself killed!'” The steel pipe flails in the air. “How do you manage to solve all those crimes when you're clearly an idiot?”

“Um, hello.” John's strained voice enters the monologue and for a moment Sherlock thinks she's going to go over there and hit him for interrupting. But her eye flashes onto his prone form and her expression softens minutely.

“Yes, hello. You must be Doctor Watson.”

“John, please,” says John, the hand holding the knife to Mary's throat beginning to shake as the muscles strain to maintain the awkward position. The trickle of blood increases and Sherlock can see Mary flinch. “Sorry, you're Carolyn?” he asks. He is focused on Mary and the knife in his hand and doesn't look at her.

“Yes, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, owner of MJN Air, a flight charter company–”

“Yeah, sorry, that's great. Do you think maybe you could...?”

Carolyn seems to look at him for the first time and she gives a sort of start. “Oh! Yes, yes of course.” Sherlock sees her eye go straight to the gun on the floor and he watches with a mix of amusement and foreboding as she walks over to it and picks it up, the barrel carefully pointed away and her fingers as far from the trigger as she can get them.

“What do I do?” she asks.

The question prompts John to flicker a glance over to her and he swears under his breath. “Jesus Christ. Sherlock, say something,” he says.

Sherlock nods. “Just point the long hollow end and pull the trigger if someone moves who shouldn't,” he says kindly.

Carolyn casts Sherlock an irritated glance and John swears again.

“Yes, thank you for that illuminating lesson. I mean, what about the safety? Don't these things have some kind of catch or lever?”

Sherlock sighs. “The safety isn't on, as is evidenced by the fact that you just saw it discharge across the room.”

“Oh, yes. Good point. In that case.” She raises it in both hands and points it squarely at Mary. John swears again, more loudly this time and he scrambles away as quickly as he can, the wooden chair scraping and dragging on the concrete floor.

“If you move, I'll kill you,” Carolyn says, staring right at Mary and Mary, unflinching, stares back. For a moment there is calculation in her gaze as she tries to decide how much of a threat this old woman presents, but it doesn't take a very long time for her to nod, going deliberately limp on the floor, he hands open and carefully raised above her head. Carolyn nods coolly.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John mutters. “Where do you find these people?” He is sawing at the ropes that are still binding him and Sherlock smirks, watching him, and for the first time notices the cuts on John's hands, long jagged marks that run vertically down his wrists and into the backs of his hands and the fleshy sides of his thumbs. They are oozing slowly and Sherlock frowns. The pattern of wounds is familiar.

“Your hands,” he says.

John doesn't look up, ripping at the rope around his ankles. “The binding on my wrists,” he says. “Barbed wire of some kind coated with an oil. Supposed to burn. It did at first, but just went numb after a bit. Chili oil, probably. 'S funny, they use that in surgeries now, drip it into the open site as a method of long term pain relief. You know, knee surgeries...” he trails off, clearly not paying attention to what he's saying anymore, concentrating on the fibres parting under his hands.

Sherlock gapes for a moment and it takes him a moment to realise that Moran couldn't possible have known that trick didn't work. In Cairo, in that little room with the shuttered window and the small table just like this, MI6 had arrived before Sherlock could do anything more than pull his feet free. Still, the man's an idiot. Sherlock feels another pang of embarrassment for Jim Moriarty.

The last rope falls away from around John's ankle and he's free, pushing himself stiffly to his feet, stumbling slightly from a combination of sore muscles and the pain in his chest, the skin pulling away from itself where Mary has carved her stolen initials into him and his bloodied shirt flapping open, its edges sticking to the open wounds. His entire chest is red from his own blood and it pools at the top of his sleep trousers, soaking them through. John is panting slightly and the lines in his face are creased into a frown by the time he makes it across to Sherlock and Sherlock remembers the drug that is still lingering in his system, as well. Even though he is tied up, he makes an aborted attempt to reach for John as he stumbles again, almost falling.

John catches himself and looks up to see Sherlock watching. He smiles tightly. “Shut up,” he says, and Sherlock smiles back, because there's nothing else he can do and because John knows, he knows what Sherlock means by that look by now.

John moves behind Sherlock and begins to cut away at the rope binding him, started with the one around Sherlock's chest. When it falls away, Sherlock takes a deep breath and as soon as the rope falls away from his arms and wrists he stretches them and can immediately feel them beginning to cramp. His lungs feel awkwardly full, as if he's forgotten how to control the flow of so much air. It takes several breaths until he is no longer gasping and breathing starts to feel normal again. He hadn't even realised how constricting the ropes had been until they'd been taken away.

“Alright?” John says and he is right behind him, his heat and his breath, leaning against the back of the chair, his voice right by Sherlock's ear and Sherlock feels an odd sensation creeping up his back, like the sensation he gets when the tip of the needle first breaks skin and he imagines he can feel the perfect point of the bevel under his skin, the steel shaft sliding into his vein; fear and anticipation and the overriding and inescapable knowledge that this is a terrible idea and that Mycroft wouldn't approve.

“Fine,” he says. “Hurry up.”

There is a huff of laughter against his neck and then John is gone, the heat from his body sliding away as he comes back around to kneel at Sherlock's feet. He quickly and efficiently cuts through the rope around his legs and ankles and then there is only the belt left, strapping his thighs down to the seat of the chair. Sherlock's shoulders are cramped and aching, his lungs still slightly burning, and all his limbs tingling numbly from the tightness of the binding, but he freezes when he sees the glance that John flickers up to him, a lightning quick reflex as he leans forward, the front of his body supported by Sherlock's legs, and he reaches for the broad leather strap that lays tight against his thighs.

Sherlock is aware of the sudden rush of blood to his cock and he knows that John sees the bulge because he pauses, an infinitesimal moment that Sherlock only notices because he is looking for it, far too aware of every breath that John Watson takes, every shallow rise of his bloodied chest, every involuntary twitch of every muscle. Sherlock watches those hands and he watches as John leans to the side and lays the knife down on the concrete.

“Better not,” John says with the slightest imaginable smirk. “Don't want to hit anything vital.”

He straightens and he is leaning forward again, pushing against the front of Sherlock's legs and Sherlock can feel the hard press of something against his leg that has nothing to do with knives and ropes and concrete floors and everything to do with the fact that John is now reaching around either side of him, pressing forward until his head is almost in Sherlock's lap and Sherlock can feel John's breath, hot and shallow through the cheap polyester of his pants.

“John...” he says and it comes out as a pant and he has no idea what he intends to say next. So he says it again. “John,” and John looks up, blue eyes dark and the smirk on his lips filled with mischief.

“Sherlock,” he says, and there is the clink of metal and the belt comes undone. Sherlock feels the abrupt loosening around his thighs and his tingling legs fall immediately and involuntarily to the side.

The sudden inhalation that John gives, half-gasp, half-wordless moan, falls into Sherlock's ears and nuzzles there and Sherlock is utterly hard, his cock straining against his pants and it is inches away from where John's mouth breathes complicated stutters into his lap.

There is the sudden clearing of a throat and John gives a start and jumps back. Sherlock is breathing hard and flushed to the tips of his hair. He feels fevered, his eyes wide and dark, and he looks up to find Douglas standing at the edge of the light, a steel pipe in his hands, and watching Sherlock and John with an eyebrow raised almost to his hairline.

“Well,” the First Officer says.

“Shut up, Douglas,” Sherlock says.

“Who the hell–” John begins.

“It took you long enough,” Carolyn snaps. She hasn't moved, the gun trained two-handed on Mary who is still prostrate on the floor and Sherlock realises with a shock how little time has actually passed since John had started to untie him. Seconds. A minute maybe. He wonders if Carolyn had even noticed.

There is movement in the dark behind Douglas and Sherlock almost speaks to warn him, but it's John who gives a huff of disbelieving laughter first and says “Greg. Jesus Christ. Is there anyone who isn't here?”

“Mycroft, hopefully,” Greg murmurs and he steps out of the dark, tired eyed and rumpled, with the unstitched look he always has at the end of a long day. There is a heavy black belt around his waist and John eyes the gun holstered there with ambivalence. Lestrade's gaze runs over John in turn, crouched on his heels on the floor at Sherlock's feet and he winces at the sight of his chest, the pooling blood and the trickle of red at the side of his face. “Bloody hell, you alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” John says, and pushes himself unsteadily to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Greg grins, his teeth white against the tan of his face. “Had a call. Your neighbour saw a strange, tall, dark-haired man enter your flat and called the police. I was on my way out the door and said I'd drop by. Favour for a friend and all. And the description sounded familiar.” He raises an eyebrow at Sherlock and smirks. “Didn't find him,” he says. “But I did find the three of _them.”_

John casts a quick glance around, his eye resting briefly on Carolyn and then Douglas. “Three?” he asks. His voice is weary and Sherlock can see the beginnings of exhaustion, the slow forward droop of his shoulders.

“Arthur,” Douglas says, eyeing John carefully and Sherlock sees the same conclusion reached on Douglas's face. “He's the getaway driver, as it were. He's waiting in the car, which is probably the safest place for him.”

“Did you spot anyone else?” John asks. There's a frown on his face and he's peering around at the black shadows pooling beyond the meagre light of the single lamp.

“He ran off when confronted with a pipe and a gun collectively,” Lestrade says.

“ _He._ Just one?” John demands and there's something urgent in his voice now, the weariness falling away. He glances at Sherlock and Sherlock feels his stomach drop.

“What?” Carolyn demands. “Stop looking at each other like that and tell us what it is!”

Sherlock sighs, a hand running roughly through his hair, and even as he does it there is the sound of a groan from Moran, sprawled out on the floor at Douglas's feet.

“There were two guards,” Sherlock says.

 


	30. Burning

The switch between exhaustion and wakefulness is complete for John. The moment he had seen the bizarre spectre of an old, stout woman in a stewardess uniform sneaking out of the shadows with a steel bar in her hands and hard, determined eyes focused on the back of Moran's dark head, his entire body had gone on alert, prepared for the first move barely a heartbeat before he had tensed his shoulders and ripped his hands from the barbed wire cuffs.

Some small corner of his mind had been aware of the new gouges being carved into his body, the brief burn as chili oil and razor sharp wire seared new marks along the backs of his hands, but it was only a corner, and while John can in no way say he has anything remotely like a Mind Palace, he does have doors and if there is anything in the world that John Watson is good at, it is closing those doors when the things behind them grow suddenly too much to look at.

And besides, John Watson is good at pain. He can't even remember the last time he wasn't in pain of one kind or another. He's not entirely sure he ever has been. Possibly as an infant? Before memory had formed and the first sight of that large, angry fist had seared itself onto his brain? The first scream of fear, the helpless pleading of his mother, burnt into the soundtrack of his mind, to wake him up at night, high and frantic between the rapid firing of guns and the whistle of shrapnel in the air? No, that's not true. There was a time he had been happy, a brief spate in Dartmoor with a hound and a mind altering drug and the uncertain night that came after that spelled out the beginnings of a suggestion that perhaps...perhaps...

But that hadn't lasted very long, after all. Half a day. A night. That was it. That was all the happiness allowed John Watson in his life.

Except _that_...just now...Sherlock had said he loved him.

Surely, surely that, if nothing else in this world, is worth being carved up and killed for. But he isn't going to die, not now, not if he doesn't have to. He has no idea who Carolyn Knapp-Shappey is or the far-too-tall man in the pilot's uniform named Douglas, or the unknown Arthur apparently waiting outside in some form of transport to take them all away from here, but he thinks he loves them just a little bit. Carolyn especially. Her timing had been _impeccable._

He thinks slightly less fondly of Douglas only because...well...he pictures the look on Sherlock's face the moment before the man had decided to appear and despite the aching, throbbing burn of his chest where he can feel the skin pulling itself apart and the slow ooze of blood and the prickle as it slowly clots, the sticky itchiness from the blood pooling at the top of his trousers, the massive headache from being drugged and battered, and the fact that his feet are so cold from the concrete floor that they've gone numb and he seriously begins to worry about frost bite, despite all that, he can feel his cock twitching and he grins to himself. Because some facts are unalterable, and apparently Sherlock's ability to turn him on with a look no matter where or what or when is one of them.

“What are you grinning about?” Greg mutters. He is beside John. His gun is in his hand and he's staring out at the shadows, his weary face alert.

John shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Just...” He grins again and he sees the flash of teeth from the man beside him.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “I know. Just can't get rid of the bastard, can we?”

“God no,” John says and he laughs, the high pitched giggle that always makes him feel slightly hysterical. But Greg is laughing, too, a low rich chuckle and the others are all staring at them and John catches Sherlock's look and it is filled with something so close to jealousy that in spite of himself John can feel something inside of him crow.

“Enjoying yourselves?” Carolyn drawls from where she stands with a gun pointed at Mary and John is surprised too at the determined ruthlessness of this seemingly innocuous old woman. Not a killer, no, but certainly capable of being one should the need arise. He only hopes that it doesn't.

“Oh, hell yes,” Greg says with a grin and John gives a bark of laughter because he is happy, he is so happy, and it feels for a moment that it doesn't matter what happens next because for him, right now, the world stops here.

So of course that's when Moran suddenly shifts and Douglas, steel bar in hand, gives a start and jumps back. There is a gun in Moran's hand and it is pointing at John so swiftly that John is sure that the man's been conscious for several minutes already and bloody hell he  _deserves this_ because he should have checked, he should have known. The very first thing he should have done is see if Moran had a gun and then secured the insane kidnapping madman, but he didn't. He went to Sherlock like the utterly besotted fool that he is and he  _deserves to have this gun pointing at him for that alone_ . He looks at Moran, his erstwhile captor, the first good look he's had so far, and he knows that they're in trouble. This man is mad. Not like Jim Moriarty who was all charm and coldness with sudden spurts of fire, playing games because they were fun and he was bored and he wanted someone  _to just play with him already._ No, Moran is a fever of passion, a hot brand of righteous anger, the kind of men that John fought against in Afghanistan, all moral outrage and burning hate. He's learnt to fear these men because there's no way to tell what they'll do because there is nothing that they won't do.

But Greg–God bless Greg–because his own gun is up and pointing almost as quickly, quickly enough that Moran pauses, doesn't pull the trigger right away, and John knows that this is the only thing that has saved his life.

“Okay,” Greg says carefully, his eyes intent on Moran. “Let's all just take a step back. Put the gun down and I'll do what I can for you, okay? No one's died yet so let's just keep it that way.”

“No one?” Moran's voice, the subtle slide of his accent, the deliberate precision of his consonants, making it sound like a song as he purrs the words. Abruptly the gun turns on Sherlock and John nearly takes a step towards Moran, a bright spot of terror and anger lighting up in him.

“No one has died? Was James Moriarty so insignificant to you then?”

“No,” John blurts, before the others can speak and just like that the gun is back on him, Moran's hot eyes burning into him and he can feel the gaze almost like a physical thing from a dozen paces away. “No,” John says. “Moriarty almost killed us. He certainly defeated us.”

Moran is staring at him not saying a word but John can see that he's listening, something questioning in the way his eyebrows twitch suddenly lower.

“The only way he could have beat us is by doing what he did,” John says, his voice low and cautious. He is choosing every word carefully. “He could have beat us other ways. But we would have still been in the game. We would have kept playing. But this way, what he did, there was nothing we could do. He won. He made sure he won and there was nothing we could do to stop him. He won the game, Moran.”

“No,” Moran is shaking his head, his eyes wide and there is something desperate in his face, desperate to believe, to not believe. “He was going to get rid of Sherlock Holmes. He told me.”

John looks at him sadly because suddenly he can see this tragedy for what it is. Not just passion, not just revenge. Jealousy.  _Good God they were in trouble._

“If Moriarty hadn't done what he had that day on the roof, if he had let Sherlock go to keep playing the game, what would have happened to you, Moran?”

Moran looks frightened for a moment. “Me?” he says and it's a whisper. No one is moving.

“Yes, you. If James had kept playing with Sherlock Holmes.”

There is a moment in which everything hangs suspended and John has no idea what happens next, no idea if this will work, and if it does, what the result will be. He is trying to reason with a madman and he knows from experience the uselessness of that endeavour. But he's not trying to be friends with the man, not trying to make him see the error of his ways. All John wants is for him to waver, for the briefest second to be distracted enough that he stops paying attention to the gun in his hand. And for a moment, for the fraction of a heartbeat, John thinks it might work.

And then the shadow moves and the shape of the second guard steps out, his own gun up and pointing and it's at Carolyn.

“Alright,” the man says. “Everyone, guns down,” and every eye in the warehouse centres on him, on the direction his barrel is pointing, and John sees it, Moran's fraction of a waver, and in that instant he reaches for the gun in Greg's hand and Greg gives it to him and as easily as that John is armed and his entire universe narrows down to the heavy feeling of metal between his hands and the faint smell of oil and gunpowder, the instinctive flex of a single finger, and everything happens at once and the whole world stops as John Watson pulls the trigger.

The sound of the discharge is thunderous in the warehouse, far louder than the pop that Mary's gun had released with its silencer muffling the worst of its noise, and right on its tail a second shot is fired and John feels the explosion of heat in his right shoulder and a moment later the searing pain, so sharp, a pain he'd forgotten but remembers now in all its blinding agony, and he almost misses the third gun shot, and then the fourth, and somewhere mixed in is the echoing clang of metal bouncing on concrete, and it's only after the fourth shot that he is able to see again, the bright stars going out behind his eyes so that when he looks up, crouched on the floor with a hand that isn't his pressed to his shoulder, the hot slide of his own blood down his chest, _too much of it, far too much,_ the pulse of its flow, the heavy, choking scent of it too close to his face and taking over everything with the sharp pulse of its familiarity, John is aware of Sherlock and a long pale hand pressed into his wound, of Moran, unmoving, thrown halfway onto his back with his face destroyed, the guard crumpled on the floor, Douglas and Greg standing over him, the steel bar blood spattered and misshapen on the floor, Carolyn, crumpled in a heap and her head thrown back, and standing over her, feet braced and gun pointing straight at Sherlock, is Mary.

John doesn't even think about it. The gun is still in his hand. He raises it and fires before he's consciously aimed. Mary gives a cry, the blood blooming from her right shoulder, the gun falling from her suddenly nerveless hand and spinning as it hits the ground and she takes a step back and falls.

For a moment everything is still, the silence almost as loud as the noise before it. And then shouting and the faint sound of helicopters churning up the air. There is the sound of a crash, a door being kicked in, and then the sharp beams of high powered flashlights breaking from the shadows. They are surrounded in less than a minute and by then John is exhausted again. He has dropped the gun and Sherlock has kicked it away and as people scream at them to raise their hands John just can't be bothered. He can feel Sherlock's heat bleeding into him, the steady flow of his own blood seeping out. _Brachial artery,_ his mind supplies and he knows that he needs help.

Sherlock is speaking. John knows because he can feel the vibrations of his baritone running through him, but he can't hear him. He thinks of that voice, those lips shaping the words he's waited far too many years of his life to hear, he thinks of verdigris eyes gone dark with wonder, with fear, with want, and John's happy because it's the last thing he gets to think about before it all goes dark.

 


	31. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's interested, I did a Tumblr prompt that sort of turned into a fill-in mini fic for this universe. In the last chapter when John talks about his day and a half of happiness in Dartmoor, I decided I'd write that out. Link is here if you want to read it:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1434028/chapters/3015427
> 
> It's not essential for this story, however, so don't worry about it if you want to skip it over.
> 
> (P.S. you may hate me after.)

The world is blood and flashing lights. The white beam of torches from the dark then later the rotating flash of the ambulance, turning the universe crimson and blue.

There is blood everywhere, seeping into the concrete in a dozen different places. Weapons and makeshift weapons lying forgotten where they had fallen, covered in DNA and fingerprints and blood types. There are bullets buried in the walls, the scrape of ammunition against steel and chips of concrete missing from the floor. There is no mistaking what has happened here.

Everyone who is conscious is cuffed, Lestrade protesting the entire time, his face grey and tired, his eyes old. Sherlock refuses to move until John is taken away, engulfed by paramedics and emergency equipment and even then he is only stopped from following by the two armed police officers who pin him to the ground, silent but determined, and he feels the click of the cuffs encircling his wrists.

Douglas says nothing, letting the officers manhandle him into the back of a vehicle. There is blood and worse spattered across his face and his hands and he stares ahead of him with eyes that are blank with shock. The guard who had shot at Carolyn is alive but comatose, his skull battered in, a piece of bone buried in his brain. It's doubtful that he'll ever wake up.

Moran is dead, the back of his head a ruin, his dark eyes glazed over, the hole from John's bullet a neat circle between his eyes.

Carolyn is already awake by the time the ambulance gets to her. She is having trouble standing, her head spinning whenever she tries. Ironically, it was Mary who saved her life, kicking her to the ground where she hit her head only a breath before the guard had taken the shot at her. Concussion, obviously. She is already protesting at being made to go to the hospital.

Mary herself is conscious and stone-faced. The wound isn't fatal. It's not even all that bad. The shot was a clean one, perfectly precise, under the clavicle and above the artery. She is pale and sweating, her body vibrating with adrenaline and pain, but there is nothing in her expression that shows it as they load her onto the gurney and drive away.

Douglas, Lestrade, Sherlock. They are the only ones left standing. Except for Arthur who hovers lost at the edges of everything. It was he who had called the police, babbling about gun shots and assassins in the night and largely he is ignored. He stares after the ambulance that carries his mother away then stares at Douglas, spattered with blood and brain matter and utterly unresponsive.

They are going to be driven away, taken to some police station or another. SOCO is already crawling all over the car park, the door of the warehouse standing open and light blazing outwards as every inch is picked over and catalogued. The sun hasn't even risen yet, full morning still just a flush of brighter darkness in the east. It feels like years have passed, decades since Sherlock had taken that first step into the warehouse, but it is less than two hours. And minutes, only minutes, since John Watson's eyes had closed.

Sherlock is hardly even aware when the police car starts to move, carrying him away from the warehouse, from the red stain on the concrete where John had bled, where he had looked at Sherlock and almost smiled as his eyes had slipped shut and his face had gone slack, and Sherlock is thinking of the Goddess Nut and her wide blue wings like a vulture's, arcing over the earth like a sky, of a paperback novel about a circus that John would have read and adored. He doesn't know where they are now, in his bag, somewhere in the warehouse, stripped away when they had tied him up and tossed to the side like rubbish. He wonders what the forensic team will think, unwrapping the Goddess from the cheap shirt encasing her, fingers sheathed with plastic gloves as they pick her apart for meaning.

He doesn't notice when the car stops, but the muttered oath of the officer in front makes him glance up and he sees immediately what the matter is. A small fleet of black cars. They are being surrounded.

Sherlock knows this is it. That whatever he came here to do is done now and he wonders if he'll ever find out, if someone will tell him if John Watson lives or dies and he doesn't even know if he wants that, if he would want someone to tell him, because the world with the possibility of John is a far better place than the world defined by the certainty of his absence from it.

Sherlock waits while the officer opens his door and steps out. There is hardly ten sentences exchanged with a short man in a dark suit before the door beside Sherlock is being opened and he is being pulled out by his arm, forcibly turned around, and then the snick of metal and the sudden freedom of his cuffs being removed. He turns, a question on his face that never gets asked, because there is Mycroft, sliding from the car nearest him, perfectly pressed and not a hair out of place, but Sherlock sees the exhaustion, the faint smudging of his features, like someone's taken a pencil drawing and run their hand across it. And Sherlock has no idea what to think, what this means, what happens next, but he sees the brightness in Mycroft's eye, the edge of triumph, utterly at odds with the tone of his voice when he nods and says “Welcome home, Sherlock.”

 

 


	32. Drifting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love to cartopathy who helped with the deduction.

There is a nurse, mid-thirties, her red hair slicked back in a tight knot and dark circles under her eyes. The blue hospital scrubs she wears are slightly wrinkled and Sherlock looks at the brand new security card around her neck and the frayed and faded lanyard it hangs on, the slight redness on her left hand just above the knuckle of her third finger.

He sees all this, reads with ease the habits of a workaholic and the broken engagement it has led to. It's not even difficult.

But he can't read where John is and the nurse isn't telling him.

“Sir, please, if you require the A and E—”

He snarls at her, cutting her off because they've had this conversation twice already and he is becoming frustrated and angry and desperate. He wants to shake her, to choke her until she is red-faced and gasping and the words that come out of her mouth have nothing to do with anything other than the current state and location of one Doctor John Hamish Watson. He can almost see it happening and the thought of gratification is almost enough, almost.

She must read something of this in his face because she takes a step back and he can see her reaching for the pager at her waist, clearly intending to call for security.

He forces himself to calm down, strips the murder from his face. He takes three steps backwards and raises his hands in the most placating gesture he can manage.

“Listen to me,” he says and he says it slowly, carefully. “I do not need the A and E.”

“Sir, you're covered in blood and you're frightening everyone. If you don't want help then you're going to have to leave.”

“It's not my blood!” he almost shouts. The third time now. “It's John's! It's John's blood! _I need to find John!”_

He is close. He is so close to losing control because he doesn't know how to handle this. He doesn't know what he can do to make this happen and the woman with her tired eyes and wrinkled uniform is both the thing that can make it happen and the thing that is stopping it. He doesn't know what to do with her. He doesn't know how he can change this. All he can think about is the fact that the last sight he had of John Watson there were machines breathing for him and _John John John Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn. He needs to find John._

“Please,” he says, and he knows he is covered in blood, that he is still in the uniform of an airline pilot, that he is pale and dishevelled and that his hair is in disordered clumps, sticky with John's blood from when Sherlock had run his hands through it. Blood. There is blood _everywhere._ There is so much of it and he doesn't understand how John can still be alive without it. He wants to save it, scrape it from his skin and wring it from his clothes, keep it in a container somewhere and hold onto it because he doesn't even know if this is the only part of John he will ever have left to him.

“Please,” he says again and he can feel the hot streak of tears on his face but he can't stop them. “Please, I need to know. Please tell me where he is. Please. I need to see him. I need to see John.”

She is staring at him and he sees pity on her face, but also determination and exhaustion and he knows this isn't going to work, that he's failing again, that this is all he will ever be able to do, just this much and never quite enough. He is so tired.  _He is so tired._

“Sherlock?” He hears his name before he feels the hand settle on his shoulder and he whirls around to see Douglas with Arthur just behind him. He has no idea what's on his face, what they see there, but Douglas is suddenly pale and the concern is almost palpable, both hands reaching out and grabbing his shoulders.

“No. Oh God, no. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

It's clear that Douglas thinks John is dead and even though Sherlock  _knows_ that there is no way Douglas could have this information when he doesn't, and that Douglas's perception is based entirely on his own body language, Sherlock feels something in him shatter with the completeness of spun glass hitting a concrete floor. It is almost physical and he has no idea how he got there but when he blinks the world has tilted itself sideways around him and he's staring at the light fixture on the ceiling and it's blinding, it's too bright, and he's just so tired.

There are people around him and he watches them moving in and out of his line of vision and they are all talking and the red-haired nurse is telling him to talk, too, but he doesn't know what to say so he just says “John” instead, and as if on that cue everyone fades away and he wonders if finally, finally something worked. If they're going to get John for him. And then there are more faces sliding into view, oddly distorted, scattered at the edges, and he sees the pencil smudge portrait of Mycroft suddenly appear. He thinks he must be hallucinating because he sees fear on his brothers face, sketched out in the blurred lines and indistinct edges.

“Myc.”

“Sherlock. What happened?” And then louder and in the voice that Sherlock remembers from the first time Mycroft had found him, strung out on three different drugs in a dingy basement flat in Haringey: “What happened.”

Sherlock thinks for a second that Mycroft is talking to him and he opens his mouth, frowning as he tries to hold onto some sort of thought but everything is fluttering around in his head, bits of scattered scraps of paper that he can't seem to get a hold of, just random flashes of words that make no sense on their own. But it's okay, because he realises that Mycroft is talking to someone else because the red-headed nurse is back, her tired face creased in concern. For him? For John?

“John.”

“For God's sake,” Mycroft says.

Then he's being lifted and he feels the slight give of the gurney as he's laid down again.

“John!” he says, louder, more insistent. He doesn't understand why no one's listening and he tries to get up. It's easier now, not being on the floor, and he starts to swing his legs over but there are hands _everywhere_ and they're pressing him down and Mycroft is there and he's saying something to a nurse.

“Just get him down. For God's sake, do as I say!” And Sherlock feels the coolness of isopropyl alcohol and he knows what comes next and part of him wants to fight it but mostly he's just so tired and John John _John John Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn..._

“Yes, John,” Mycroft says. “Soon. You'll see him soon.” And Sherlock's not sure what that means but it's okay, he's not worried even as he feels the sudden stab of the needle in his deltoid and everything start to goes fuzzy, some of the tension goes away. He knows it's okay. He'll see John soon. Mycroft's always right.

 


	33. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have been drunk when I wrote this.

He swims to the surface, grey waves of texture that intersperse with a faint pale light. He's aware of voices but they have nothing to do with him, a low hum of background noise like the sound of cars passing on the road from inside Baker Street.

Colours start to resolve, and then the firmer lines of objects. A long fluorescent light that is thankfully turned off. A smoke alarm. The edges of ceiling tiles he's never seen before. He blinks at them and has no idea where he is. But he is clearly in bed and the voices are resolving and entering the same room as him, sliding unevenly from background to foreground. Lestrade and Mycroft and Douglas. He has to be at home. But Mycroft never comes over when he thinks Lestrade will be there and Douglas, he has no idea what Douglas is doing there. But it's fine. John will know.

_John._

“He's awake.”

“Sherlock.”

“Jesus, mate.”

It's Lestrade he sees first, focusing with an effort on the deep lines of overwork and the deeper ones of worry. Behind Lestrade is Douglas, his face oddly slack with a tension behind his eyes that makes him look ten years older. Sherlock rolls his head to the left and finds Mycroft, and he knows that look that is sitting on his brother's face, has seen it on and off for thirty-eight years. He grew up with it and he knows now exactly what that look means: Mycroft Holmes is deeply unimpressed.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“I believe I told you to wait for me.”

Sherlock frowns, trying to remember. “You were taking too long.”

There's a flash of familiar annoyance in his eyes. “I was parking the car.”

“What did you think I was going to do?” Because honestly.

“He's got a point,” Lestrade says and for the first time in seven years Sherlock witnesses Mycroft Holmes publicly acknowledging Lestrade.

He glares. “Gregory.”

Sherlock, following his gaze, is just in time to see the brief flood of colour on Lestrade's face and he frowns.

“Who's Gregory.”

Lestrade looks briefly murderous before he gives a snort of hysterical laughter. “Sod off, you utter bastard,” he says, his face twisted halfway into a reluctant grin. “Jesus Christ, we'll never get rid of you.”

Sherlock's frown deepens and he turns back to find Mycroft watching him and for the briefest moment there is the glimpse of something softer in his face, but it's gone in an instant and Sherlock pretends he doesn't see.

“I need your help,” he says, and it's galling and nauseating but he has no choice. There are some things he can't do on his own.

“I know you do,” Mycroft says, and to his credit he doesn't look the least bit smug, only surprised and slightly distressed, as if this is the most worrying thing that could have happened. “And as much as I hate to credit him with being so helpful, Moran probably saved your life.”

Sherlock can feel something close to a prickle of anger at the name. “Moran is dead.” He doesn't understand why this matters, what the point is of talking about this. He needs John. He wants to find John and Mycroft, Mycroft can do this, he can fix this.

“Yes. But he came here first, didn't he? It was quite convenient for you, brother. Colonel Sebastian Moran, trusted right hand of James Moriarty. A six month mission that followed you home.”

“What are you wheezing about, Mycroft?”

“Moran was the head of the organisation you were sent to dismantle.”

“You told me six months.”

Mycroft looks annoyed. “I could hardly have predicted that he would come looking for you, Sherlock. I'm not omniscient, you know.”

Sherlock snorts but he doesn't even try to refute it. “I don't care Mycroft. I need you to help me.”

Mycroft looks exasperated. “I just told you, Sherlock. It's done. You're home.”

Sherlock stares at him. _“John,_ Mycroft. I need to find _John and they won't. Let me. Near him.”_

“John Watson? For Heaven's sake, Sherlock.”

 _“Mycroft._ ”

“He's in critical care. You've already terrified half the staff and they're all expecting you to go bursting in there at any moment.”

He's already pushing the blankets aside and making a grab for the edge of the bed when his head gives a lurch and he overbalances. Six hands appear to support him and he waves them all off, pulling himself upright with a grunt. He is attached to an intravenous line, clear fluid dripping into him and a heart monitor on his finger. He's been stripped of his bloody clothes at some point and looking around he can't see any evidence of them anywhere, but the blood has been sponged from his skin, as well, and he's wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs that are too large for him.

“What room is he in?” he demands with a frown.

“He's sleeping, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “He just got out of surgery. He's lost a lot of blood. He may need another operation later on, once they see how it heals.”

“Where is he?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says warningly, but Sherlock is already pulling himself upright, swaying for a brief moment as his vision blacks out and he shuts his eyes, waiting for it to pass. He can feel Mycroft trying to restrain him and he pushes him away with a petulant flap of his hand. He pulls the clip off his finger, letting it dangle, and grabs the IV pole for support.

His first step, he thinks he's going to fall. By the fourth step he's wishing he had shoes but he no longer feels like he's going to tip over and he ignores Lestrade and Mycroft arguing in furious whispers, wheeling his pole out of the room, the bottoms of the scrub pants dragging under his feet. He's half way down the hall before Douglas comes after him, but Douglas says nothing, just gets in the elevator with him and presses the floor button for critical care.

Sherlock's heart is pounding and his head is light. He feels like he's floating away but he can't now and he clenches his hands trying to anchor himself, as if trying to clutch at the ground at his feet.

The elevator is taking forever. It's three floors down but they are the highest floors every built. Sherlock estimate they are each at least thirty-eight feet high, but eventually, after what feels like hours, the elevator shudders to a halt and the doors slide open.

He steps out, forgetting everything but that he's close. He's so close. He doesn't even remember Douglas who is still in the elevator, watching Sherlock without getting out.

There is a line of rooms, glass-fronted and teeming with people. No one even questions him and Sherlock knows that Mycroft has prepared the way because someone takes his arm, a nurse with short hair and a limp, and Sherlock is led to a room where there is only one bed with a shape that is far too small huddled under the glare of the fluorescent lights, face drained of all colour and Egyptian blue eyes shut tight.

_John._

 


	34. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe SherlockSlayerofDragons and cartopathy huge thanks for help with drugs and medical stuff. Anything that is still horrifically incorrect is my own fault.

He doesn't turn away from John for two hours, tracking the time by the slow crawl of light coming in through the window. It slides over him, shifting with every rise of John's chest and Sherlock starts to count them, every breath, every stuttering inhalation. The only time he looks away is when he puts his head to the place where John's heart is beating a slow tempo behind his ribs, feeling the rise and fall against his cheek, his eyes closed as he listens to the steady pulse of its contractions.

Nurses come in every half an hour to record John's readings and peel back his eyes, prodding carefully at machines and infusion bags. At one point someone takes Sherlock's pulse, too, counting his breaths, checking his blood pressure, and recording it all on a separate chart that they bring in with them. When they're done, they hang it on the second bed in the room and the quiet statement doesn't get past him. He knows he will owe Mycroft for this, an endless number of petty government mysteries, hacked emails and interoffice affairs that Mycroft could solve in his sleep but just can't be bothered to.

After two hours he knows he can't maintain this. He needs to toilet for one thing and though there is one in the room, he thinks of the precious seconds wasted, the possibility of missing a single flicker of an eyelid or the halting stutter of a final breath. He thinks of John waking up to find himself alone. He thinks of him not waking up at all. When he does finally get up he almost pulls his IV out in his haste and he leaves the door standing open, too afraid to close it lest John make some noise or a machine starts to go frenzied with alarms.

But when he gets back to the bed John hasn't moved and nothing has changed. He settles down again and barely reacts when a nurse comes in and tuts over his IV line and fixes it, then takes his blood pressure and his heart rate. They bring food but he ignores it, though he does drink the tea. It's disgusting, too hot and weak and they only have little packets of UHT milk which makes him cringe. But he doesn't say anything to the tired looking nurse who asks him how it is and he thinks John would approve.

By the time it's dark, he's exhausted. The chair is uncomfortable and parts of him are starting to go numb and he can feel the pull of the second bed. He feels beaten, something coughed up and stepped on. The dry air of the hospital is making his throat ache and he looks around to see if there's water and sees a pitcher and a cup on the table by the second bed. A subtle hint if he's ever seen one.

He gets up, his body protesting the movement, every muscle refusing to move. His knees are weak and he has to wait a moment, standing there with his hand on the bar of the bed until the world's realigned itself to him. When he thinks he won't fall over, he gives a last look at John and the rise and fall of his chest, then slowly makes his way to the second bed, the wheels of the IV pole rattling beside him.

He pours the water and drinks and the slide of it against the rawness of his throat is the most glorious feeling. He sighs in spite of himself and lowers himself to the edge of the bed. The mattress is a hospital mattress, too firm and covered in plastic, but he is falling back on it before he can stop himself, his head meeting the pillow and he actually lets out a whimper because the cool linen on his cheek is a wonderful feeling. He pulls his feet up and buries them under the sheets. He's not even aware of falling asleep.

 

* * * * *

 

He dreams, a strange cacophony of night skies and train stations. He is at the station in Ramses Square and John is somewhere there, but a man with a bomb in his suitcase is chasing him and he can't seem to lose him. He's flying down stairs and across platforms, running through trains whose only stop seem be Ramses Station, over and over again with the man waiting for him every time. He knows John is there, though, and he finally sees him, two platforms away and there's a gun in his hand, but beside him is Mary and she's holding a knife, carving into his arm, his sleeve shredding and falling away while John doesn't even seem to notice. Sherlock's yelling. He's screaming, shouting John's name but John doesn't see him, smiling down at Mary while she brands him with her initials.

Sherlock is awake with a suddenness that is jarring and almost physically painful. His heart is pounding and his mouth is dry. His lips are still shaping John's name, but he can't remember why. It's almost completely dark in the room and the soft buzz and beep of machinery are a steady and soothing rhythm, marking off the time of John's heartbeat, and almost instinctively Sherlock is counting off the beats in his head. It's this which alerts him.

He is up and out of his bed without a thought. At some point someone has plugged the IV pump into the wall and as he nearly runs across the room to John's bed he's completely forgotten about it. He can feel the bright flash of pain, the tear as tape and line are dragged out of his arm but he doesn't even stop. He is beside John's bed and he is trying to see clearly in the dim light but it's hard, he can't tell...only the quickened beat of John's heartbeat is giving him away.

He is aware of blood dripping down his arm, the stinging ache where the catheter has left a jagged hole. He presses a hand gently against it, swearing under his breath, angry at himself.

“Sh'k.”

Pain, blood is forgotten. He is leaning over John in an instant, hands on either side of his face, his own face far too close. He is peering at him from inches away, close enough that he feels the huff of breath, hears the hiss of the nasal cannula, and he sees _oh God_ he can see the flicker of John's eye and he knows the way they crease at the edges when he's trying to smile and Sherlock doesn't know what to do, he wants to absorb him, wants to fully incorporate John into himself, utterly safe, as close, closer than he can possibly be, he wants to never ever let him go.

“John. John. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn.”

“Sh'l'k. Git.” And this time John smiles. It's barely a twitch at the corner of his lips but Sherlock sees it instantly and he's not even aware that he's crying until he presses his face against John's and feels that it's wet.

“John. John. I love you. I love you. John I love you I love you.”

“Kn'w,” John says, his own mouth so close to Sherlock's that they're practically breathing the same air. Then John sighs and Sherlock can feel the flicker of his eyelashes against his forehead and he pulls back to see John's eyes closing, his head falling sideways as he slips back into sleep and though Sherlock knows he needs it, that sleeping is what is going to make John better, everything in Sherlock wants to shake him awake again, yell at him until he opens his eyes and he  _looks_ at Sherlock and  _sees_ him, everything he wants to say, everything he needs to say and doesn't know how, written stark and unbearable in his eyes.

He doesn't, though he wants to. He draws away instead, dragging the chair closer to the bed and sitting so that he can rest as much of his body on the small bed as he can, pressing his head and his shoulder against the line of John's thigh, his hand curved under him, his fingers over John's. Only then does he let himself close his eyes again, counting the notes of John's heart as he falls asleep.

 


	35. Floating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to don-gately, skulls-and-tea, and cartopathy for the help with drugs and meds and trying to find a way to describe to me post-surgical wake-ups and the joys of morphine. As always, however, any inaccuracies herein are all my own.

He is swimming, a swirling mass of atoms and cells and the glittering emptiness that is in between. Friction unfolding and holding together, pushing together and pulling apart, _oh he is swimming._ Gravity forgotten, he is completely ungrounded. It's a wonderful feeling, but it's frightening, too, because he's not sure what's hovering underneath him, just out of sight in the dark. There's something, he knows that there's something. He can feel the slow stream of its breath bubbling up towards him, but it just feels so good to be floating, everything suspended. He can't feel anything against his skin except the bubbles, brushing over him, enveloping him, touching everything, getting everywhere. It is lovely, like fingertips and lips. And he can hear them now, too, a slight murmur, like someone humming in another room. He wonders if they're near and if he turns if he'll be able to see them. It sounds like Sherlock, the deep reverberation that starts in his chest and passes through lips and seems to bypass his ears entirely, lodging somewhere in the mid-region of his torso, making his heart beat and his stomach flip and his throat close off, making it impossible to breathe and to speak and to think.

He is floating and he can hear Sherlock's voice. He wants to know what it's saying. He wants to understand what sort of word is formed in the heartbroken sound he hears. He strains, because he needs to hear, because Sherlock is upset and he needs to know why.

The bubbles are moving faster, getting bigger. They're everywhere and he can't get away from them. They're swamping him and they're no longer tickling. There is nothing gentle about them. Whatever is beneath him is getting closer, rising up to where he is floating, powerless in his stasis, unable to go anywhere.

Sherlock is getting louder, he can almost hear what he's saying, can almost pick out the syllables, the pause between breaths, the moments of silence in between. He is focusing on it because he's frightened now, frightened of the thing underneath him, the power of its breath rushing upwards in a stream that is battering against him and filling him up with a deep, hollow ache. There is something below him and he's waiting, he's waiting for the sudden piercing agony of its teeth.

He is so afraid.

_“Sherlock!”_

“John!”

He opens his eyes and it  _ hurts _ , like peeling skin off of barely healed wounds, the nerves raw and bloody underneath . It is bright and the light is like a physical thing, something sharp and solid sliding behind his eyelids. Everything hurts, a combination of piercing lances of hot, bright agony and a throbbing ache that penetrates every muscle, every bone, every joint. He groans and he feels the pressure on the side of his face, something deliriously cool and he leans into it.

“John.”

Sherlock.  _Sherlock._

“Morphine,” Sherlock says, and his voice is very close, a murmur almost inside his head. “They just upped it. You should feel it soon.”

“Jesus Christ,” John says and his tongue feels swollen and thick, his mouth acrid with the taste of the drugs streaming through his system and exuding from his pores. His throat is aching, like it's been stripped, and it hurts to  _breathe,_ to swallow, though he does it convulsively despite the fact that his mouth is hot and dry. He's in hospital. He knows that, would know that combination of industrial cleaner and desperation anywhere in the world. He has no idea what he's doing here, only that everything hurts and he wants it to stop.

“John.”

“Sherlock.” It comes out as a dry croak and it feels like being dragged across pavement.

“Are you alright? John,  _are you alright?”_

“Light.” It's too bright. It's far too bright.

Sherlock disappears and a moment later cool shadow descends on the room and it feels like being doused in water. It still hurts but it's lessening, overtaken by a faint feeling of numbness, as if he's falling out of his own body.

Sherlock is back and he's standing over John, a cup in his hand. “They said not to let you have water, but I have ice.”

John makes a sound, a grinding, tearing sound that he doesn't even recognise as coming from himself and  _oh God it hurts._ He nods and he hears the whine of machinery and the gradual incline of the bed as Sherlock works the mechanism to elevate his head.

Sherlock feeds him, slowly slipping ice chips between his lips. They are cold and they sting but they feel incredible sliding down his throat. The morphine is filling him up and he can feel everything start to drift away. He's smiling, Sherlock staring intently into his face, his eyes creased in worry, and John loves him, loves him so much. He can feel it building up so he let's it go, let's it slip away from him and he wonders if Sherlock can feel it, if he can feel the warmth of John's adoration creeping into the cracks of his visage.

“Should he be smiling like that?” Sherlock asks, and it takes a moment for John to register that he's not talking to him and that there's someone else in the room, a nurse with short dark hair who is watching them critically with a chart in his hands.

“Yes, that's normal,” the nurse says with a tight smile. He looks so tired and John wants to tell him that he should sleep.

“He never smiles this much,” Sherlock says.

John turns back to him and snorts. “Git,” he says, and it comes easier, no longer the scrape of sandpaper along his esophagus. At the word, Sherlock smiles, something radiant and lovely and it is the smile that John has only ever seen a handful of times. He remembers the last time, standing on the tarmac with a plane behind them, waiting to take Sherlock away and he finds himself clutching convulsively at the bed linen, stretching his left hand out with a wrench of muscle and tissue. Sherlock sees the movement and immediately his hand is in John's, pulling it back down to the bed, forcing it to rest, but he doesn't let go, his fingers sliding between John's and John clutches at him. It feels like there is too much space between their fingers, the atoms whirling and never touching and he presses harder.

“Stay,” he says.

Sherlock's expression is the gradual erosion of relieved happiness into something sadder, something infinitely more complex, and John wishes he could understand it right now, wishes he could focus but he can feel the drag of the morphine and he's so tired and he wants to sleep, even as he tightens his hand around Sherlock's.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his face drawn in haggard lines of fear and joy and worry. “Yes. Always.”

 


	36. Cracks

There is something beside him, warm and living. He breathes it in and he knows it's John, under the industrial cleaner and the drugs, he would know the smell of John anywhere.

There is a hand on his head, kneading his skull, fingers threading through his hair. It's caressing, like petting a cat, and it's an odd thought that makes Sherlock wonder if John would like a cat. Should he get John a cat? A dog would be impractical, and even as he thinks it the thought of Redbeard springs up and he tamps it down again with a brutal thrust. _No no no no no no._ Not now. He can't think of Redbeard, not when John was almost stolen from him, another thing slipping through his fingers, another thing he's failed at. But lying with the coarse scratch of the hospital linen against his cheek and his left arm gone numb underneath him, he imagines having something in the flat, something that's indelibly _theirs_. He imagines talking about it, telling Lestrade that they have to go because they need to feed _their_ cat. He imagines John talking about it. _The cat needs to go to the vet, Sherlock. Sherlock, you left the fingers out and the cat ate them. Sherlock, while I don't mind the cat sleeping on the bed with us, I do expect to be able to at least straighten my legs._ He smiles because he hears it in his head in John's voice and it takes him a minute to realise what's he's done, that he's imagining John in his bed. He's imagining _their_ bed, and something in him both opens up and shuts down.

John must feel the shift in tension against his leg because the hand in Sherlock's hair momentarily tightens and then disappears and Sherlock groans because he isn't ready yet to open his eyes, isn't ready to see the bandage again, covering half of John's torso, the too pale skin and the blood dripping into his arm, the machines beeping around him and the bruising under his morphine-glazed eyes. He's not ready, but he has to get up because it's John who needs him and what use is he if he can't even open his eyes?

He pushes himself up and his left shoulder feels like it's being torn from his body as he drags it out from under him. His entire arm sends a cacophony of small screams up to his nervous system. His fingers feel swollen and the underside of his forearm is one big bruise. There is dried blood crusted over the jagged hole where his IV was torn out and there is blood on the sheet where he was resting it. He can already feel the stinging ache that surrounds it as the feeling starts to rush mercilessly back.

“Hello, love,” John says and Sherlock squints up at him. It's dark again, no daylight slipping through the narrow cracks of the drawn blinds and the ward outside the glass-fronted room is almost quiet.

“John.”

“They wanted to change the sheets. You bled all over them. I didn't let them. You should sleep in the bed, you know.”

“You asked me to stay.”

John frowns, a half formed expression that is soft and dreamy and unsure. “Did I? I'm sorry.”

Sorry? Sherlock doesn't know what that means. Sorry because he shouldn't have asked? Sorry because he doesn't want him here? Sorry for some meaningless social convention that Sherlock's never bothered to learn? He wants to ask but he's afraid of what the answer's going to be. He starts to pull himself away, though, terrified of being unwanted, terrified that John is trying to tell him to leave, to go away, that he somehow just didn't notice.

But John's left hand, pale and limp on the bed beside him, clutches suddenly at the space where Sherlock had been and Sherlock sees the deepening frown, the lines of John's face tracing downwards into something too close to misery, and even he can read that expression.

“No. I'm sorry. Don't go. Please. Sherlock. I won't—just don't. Please.”

Sherlock freezes. He has no idea what to do. Has no idea what's expected. Should he ask? _Can_ he ask? What if he's wrong? He'll look foolish. John will laugh. John will hate him. He'll never move back in, they'll never get a cat, they'll never have a bed that's _theirs._

“Sherlock?” John says and the slur from the morphine makes him sound lost and almost frightened. But what does John have to be frightened about?

There is the sound of a throat clearing and they both jump. Douglas is standing in the doorway, an eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth tipped in a smile. He looks exhausted, his skin sagging and sallow, large bruises around his eyes.

“You both look terrible,” he says.

John snorts. “I like him,” he says to Sherlock.

Douglas's smile widens and he steps into the room. There are lines around his eyes that weren't there before and Sherlock can see the strain in his face, the effort behind the smile.

“Sherlock, Greg sent me. I'm supposed to send you for a shower.”

“I'm not leaving.”

“There's a shower down the hall. Apparently someone's bringing you a towel and soap. After this is over, you need to tell me who exactly your brother works for that he can make this happen and also how I can get one.”

Sherlock scowls, thinking of Mycroft smug in the security of Sherlock's future indenture. He can hear the huff of John's laughter and his scowl deepens.

“I'm not leaving,” Sherlock says again.

“I can smell you from here,” Douglas says. “Imagine how poor John must feel.”

“John smells, too.”

“Oi!”

“It's not your fault.”

“Take a shower, Sherlock,” John says, and there's laughter under the words. “You'll feel better.”

There is a pause and Sherlock stares at him, doesn't know what to say. “You told me to stay.”

Something like understanding, like heartbreak slips over John's expression. “I want you to. But I want you to be comfortable, too. I'll be here still. I'll wait. I'll always wait.”

“You married Mary.” Even as he says it he knows it's the wrong thing to say, that this was more than _a bit not good,_ because he can see the abrupt shift in John's face, the sudden strain tightening the morphine-softened edges, pulling inwards and shutting down.

“Yeah,” John says, and there is nothing light in his voice, it is heavy and black and there is nothing in it to tell Sherlock that's it's okay, that this was okay. “And you died.”

There is silence. Absolute silence and Sherlock knows that he can't break it, that he doesn't have that right, because John isn't looking at him anymore, has slumped downwards into his bed and closed his eyes, his face turned towards the side where Sherlock is not and Sherlock has no idea how to fix this.

“Sherlock.” It's Douglas and there is something cautious on his face, something...pitying. “Go, shower. I'll be here with him.”

Sherlock looks at John again but there is nothing from him, nothing. His eyes are closed and Sherlock can see that he is trying to keep himself still but his chest is heaving and he is breathing too fast.

“Shower,” he says. “Yes. Alright. John. John, I'm coming back.”

John doesn't say anything, but Sherlock can see the way he goes still, and after a moment there is the barest nod of his head and his eyes open though he still doesn't turn his head.

Sherlock doesn't know what else to say. Douglas is standing there and waiting for him to leave so he stands up, every muscle sore, every joint stiff, his body too long in stasis, too many things happening to it. He hobbles around the bed, not looking at Douglas, _can't not_ look at John, and as he reaches the door and looks back, with the light full on John's white face, he sees the track of tears and though he knows it's impossible, that the heart doesn't work that way, he swears he can feel his break.

 

 


	37. Fissures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to belle-of-the-fall for the amazing help with this chapter and trying to help me organise my random John rambling! Obviously, any errors and horrible mangling of the English language that remain are entirely my own fault.

Sherlock is gone, and John feels the brief panic that this brings, the sudden pulse of a frantic heart that has seen this happen before. He closes his eyes, screwing them shut because he doesn't want another image of Sherlock walking away imprinted on his mind. _Shut up. Shut up. He's taking a shower. You can't keep him at your side forever, he's doesn't belong to you, he's not something you keep and hold onto and own. Just shut up. He said he's coming back. You're the one who sent him away, for Christ's sake._

The sound of a throat clearing makes him open his eyes again and he focuses on the tall figure of Douglas, almost a silhouette against the brightness of the ward. He squints, trying to make him out, this odd stranger that seems to mean something, be someone, a part of Sherlock that John hasn't met yet and he feels the same furious jealousy that he always feels when confronted with someone who knows things about Sherlock that he doesn't.

“I don't know you,” he says and he knows his voice is flat and unfriendly but he doesn't care, he doesn't  _care,_ he's tired and emptied and nothing is really real and it stings, the sound of those words.  _You married Mary._ They hurt just as much as  _I don't have friends, why would I need you, it's just a magic trick,_ the sequence of words that no matter what other parts of Sherlock slipped away from him during the two years and four months of his death, always,  _always_ stayed with John, blazoned on the back of his eyelids, resounding like a heartbeat against the inside of his ribs, echoing with cold clarity in his ears, reminding him over and over  _and over again_ of just how badly he had failed.

It's a gift, John knows. Sherlock's  _gift._ Finding the least number of words, the exact right ones, that will hurt the most, that will create the most jagged and incurable wounds.  _You're an idiot. Not much cop, this caring lark. Why would I need you? I don't have friends. Just a magic trick. Not dead. You chose her._

_You married Mary._

It's just one more to add to the list, one more addition to the endless litany of fears and insecurities that circle in their endless loop through John's head. And he knows this is what Sherlock does, he knows that  _wounding_ is exactly the right phrase to use because these are Sherlock's weapons; these words, the things he falls back on when he himself has been wounded in turn.

Now Douglas stands watching him, his face obscured by shadow but the set of his shoulders hunched with something tense and unhappy. John is tired. He wants to sleep. He wants this all to go away. He wants to wake up to find himself back in Dartmoor where for a few hours at least he had known how incredible it could be to feel happy.

“Right,” Douglas says, and John can tell he has no idea what to say. “Well. I'll just sit. You can ignore me.”

He walks around to where the chair is that Sherlock had fallen asleep in earlier, sprawled halfway onto the bed and against John's side. It was his heat that was the first thing John had become aware of, clawing his way past the drug and the tiredness and the underlying edge of pain, the pressure of something  _living_ and  _warm_ tightly pressed to him. He had known it was Sherlock, of course. Or maybe had just wanted it to be so badly that knowing and wanting had become the same thing.

Now Douglas sits down in it and John feels like he's been displaced, like the whole room is unbalanced and leaning towards one side, this stranger far too heavy a counterweight. John sighs loudly and closes his eyes, trying to block him out, trying to remove this secondary presence, this man who knows things that he does not.

He can feel his thoughts slipping way, sliding out of his control. He's tired and he hurts and he  _can't hold onto anything._ Everything is filtering uselessly through his grasp. He's cupping water in his hands and he's trying so hard to bend down and drink but he can't quick make it in time and he is left with lips that are wet, water clinging and teasing and not even a drop to quench his thirst. It's driving him  _mad._

He knows that this man knows things, has seen things that John will never get to see and he can't help it. He is jealous and he is angry and he is filled with a desperate sense of hurt because how can he help Sherlock if he doesn't  _know._ And if he can't help, if he doesn't know, then what's to stop Sherlock from walking away all over again? He wants to scream it, he wants to take Douglas by the shoulders and shake him, shake him until he tells him what he knows, what does  _he know. What has he seen?_ He wants to scream these questions in his face, wants to ask him;  _have you seen him afraid? Have you heard him laughing? Has he called you an idiot and told you not to worry? Has he looked at you warily and ignored you when you wished, you needed, you wanted him to say something? Say anything? Have you seen him dancing, his face lit up from the inside as though he's found a switch that he never knew was there? Have you looked at him, knowing exactly what he'll say, waiting to hear it, knowing what's coming, thinking your heart is going to pound right out of your chest, only to have him surprise you? Make you laugh? Make you want to murder him and kiss him and never let him go? Has he ever walked away from you? Have you ever had to watch him leave? Made you disbelieve everything you ever thought you knew? Make you wish you'd never met him and knowing that had you not you wouldn't even be here right now? Have you stood over his grave and still not been able to tell him everything you wanted to because it can't matter, you can't let it matter, because it will only drive you mad, madder. Tell me what you know, what you've seen. Give it to me because it's mine, it's mine, it belongs to me, and you have no right to keep it._

John is frantic in his own head and he knows he's making no sense, that this man, whoever he is, isn't keeping secrets from him, isn't...whatever  _he_ is, to Sherlock Holmes. But John can't help it. He's exhausted and he hurts and he's frightened because Sherlock has just disappeared around a corner and John can't see where he is and all he can think is  _what if he never comes back,_ what if this is the time that he never sees him again, when all the miracles have finally run out? _It's just a shower, it's just a shower, it's just a shower, you're being ridiculous, you're being an idiot, so stupid, so stupid, just shut up Watson just shut up—_

“He's sort of a big lanky arsehole, isn't he?”

It's Douglas speaking, and John opens his eyes, almost surprised.

“What?” he demands, his voice tired and short.

“Sherlock. He's sort of...well, an idiot really.”

John opens his mouth immediately, ready to defend Sherlock because while it's true that he's an arsehole and an idiot and lanky, he's  _John's_ lanky-idiot-arsehole. But when he turns his head to look at Douglas he sees the paleness, the sagging skin, the strain around his eyes and his forehead, the way his shoulders are hunched and tense. He sees the way those eyes are just a little too wide and not quite  _seeing_ and John remembers the warehouse, the scattered bits of memory sliding around in his head; he pictures a steel bar, misshapen on the ground with blood and bits of skull spattered across Douglas's pale face. He closes his mouth.

“Yeah,” John says after a minute. “Yeah, he really is.”

Douglas smiles, a small, grateful thing and John can feel the guilt pouring in and swamping the resentment because he's being an arse. He knows he's being an arse.

“How do you know him?” he asks, because he still needs to know, needs to know what happened, what Sherlock went through, who these people are who followed him to a warehouse and saved his life and it's difficult to admit because he's not used to needing his life saved unless it's Sherlock who's doing it.

“Funny story that. Tried to convince us he was a pilot.”

John stares at him. “I'm...sort of amazed it didn't work. He tends to be able to convince most people of just about anything.”

“Yes, well. I don't think he was quite at his peak performance. Being a bit distracted and slightly frantic.”

John frowns. The edges are wavering. He should know what the means. It should be obvious but he's having trouble now, that bit of water on his lips evaporated and his hands dry. “I...I don't know what that means. Drugs. God I'm tired.”

Douglas looks alarmed and John tries to smile but he knows he's going to fall asleep again soon and he's afraid to because he needs to see Sherlock come back.

“No,” John says, trying to reassure Douglas. “Just...drugs. Tired. What was he frantic about?”

“Apparently he found out someone was going to kill you and didn't know how else to get back. I thought it was a bit barmy at first, pretending to be a pilot, but having now spent time with the two of you on one of your grand adventures I think I'm beginning to understand a bit better. It's not very—“ he cuts off, grimacing as he tries to find the word. “Safe,” he finally says. “Or sane. Not as much fun as it seems, is it?” There is a look on his face and for a moment John thinks he's going to be sick. But it passes quickly and Douglas forces a smile. His eyes give it away, though, wide and faintly horrified.

John stares at him and as his thoughts drift aimlessly through his head he tries to process  _not as much fun_ and he can't. Because even lying here in hospital with a stranger's blood pumping into his veins and a new hole in his shoulder, agonising over a stupid gangly idiot with irritating eyes that he can never figure out the colour of, he knows that there is nowhere in the entire world he would rather be. Douglas is staring at him oddly and he realises that he is grinning.

“No,” John says. “No. Not safe. Definitely insane.”

Douglas shakes his head, his eyes wide. “You're as mad as he is, aren't you?”

John snorts. “Probably. Listen. Falling asleep. Douglas, thank you. Saved our lives.”

“Mostly Carolyn, really. Don't think I really have this sort of thing in me.”

John shakes his head, rolling it on the pillow. It feels like it could detach, roll right off his neck and onto the floor. He wonders if they could reattach it if that happens. Maybe if they kept it on ice.

He's running out of time, he knows. His eyes are closing and he can feel the numbness, the floating uncertainty of the morphine rushing through him.

“Tell Sherlock,” he says, and he's fighting his tongue with every syllable. It's so hard and Douglas is fading, a vague blur of features in the shadows. “Tell Sherlock,” he says. “Stay.”

 


	38. Awake

He has never showered so quickly in his life. The hospital stall is small, too bright. There are bars everywhere. _Who needs these many bars?_ Surely anyone needing this much support shouldn't be showering. Sherlock hits his elbow again and he curses because he's impatient and he hears John's voice in his head when he does it. _Fuck. Jesus Christ. Bloody hell._ He wants to be done. Barely notices the sluice of hot water washing away days worth of sweat, the last lingering traces of John's blood. He watches it, browning the water, sitting above the drain before being sucked in. It's everywhere. It takes three tries with the soap before he manages to get it all out of his hair.

He almost slips getting out because of his haste. He scrubs himself dry with the towel impatiently and misses a dozen places so that when he pulls on the clean pair of scrubs someone has brought him the material sticks to his skin, making it difficult to drag on. He is terrified, terrified that John will be gone when he returns. Carted off to another room. Or simply vanished because Sherlock is so close, he is so close. It seems unreal that he is here and so is John and Mary...Mary doesn't matter anymore. He is so close and he wonders what is going to happen to mess it all up, if he hasn't already that is. He thinks of John's face. He thinks of John crying.  _John never cries._

_You made John cry._

What did he say? Well, he knows what he said. Was it that bad? Was it just the morphine and the pain and the blood loss that made it seem worse than it was? Would John look back and laugh about it when he was better? Would they lay in their bed with their cat and laugh about the stupid things they said and did? Sherlock is confused and his chest hurts, actual physical pain. He wants to take John and make everything go away, everything leave them alone, just them, no Mary no baby no Mycroft no Lestrade no Douglas no Carolyn. Nothing but them and they would be safe and nothing would touch them.

It takes him a minute to realise that he's crying and he squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the physical because physical pain is easy, it's controllable, ignorable. So he starts with his head, the dull pounding that speaks of lack of sleep and tension. His shoulder still from when he had slept with it twisted underneath him. His joints from sitting too much for too long in uncomfortable positions. His muscles, strained and undernourished. His left arm where the IV was torn out, aching and unpleasantly sensitive. And faintly but there, the scabs on his wrists and the heel of his hands where almost a week ago the barbed edges of Moran's wire cuffs had cut into him. And he can't help it; he thinks of John's wrists, deeply sliced from the same cause but such an insignificant pain in the face of all the rest.

He needs to see John. Needs to see all the damage again, needs to look at it, the swaddling bandages making it almost worse. He pushes through the door and into the hallway and runs headlong into someone who is leaning against the wall outside and he reels for a moment before trying to push past because they don't matter, only John matters. But there are hands on his arms, gripping firmly and he looks up to find Douglas.

The panic is overwhelming and instantaneous.

“John. Where's John. You said you were staying with him. Did something happen. Oh my God something happened. Something happened. Oh my God, w _here's John?”_

“Sherlock.  _Sherlock._ Good Lord, calm down. John's fine.  _He's fine, Sherlock._ ”

He's not listening. He hears the words but for some reason the sounds make no sense strung together, like a language he's learnt but then deleted. He shoves Douglas out of the way, breaking his grip on his arms with a twist and runs the distance to John's room. It's short, it should be so short, but it takes forever, and he is hurtles through the doorway and to John's bed. 

And he stares, stares because the machines are beeping and the lines are dripping and no alarms have gone off, not one, and John is laying with his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily. He's asleep. He's just asleep. Sherlock's eyes are wide and he can feel the panic recede and the world slip slowly back towards him, surrounding him again and washing him with light and sound and colour and  _John._ He makes a sound somewhere between a sob and groan and he slumps forward on the bed so that his torso is draped almost entirely over John's thighs. He is breathing fast, too fast. He tries to calm himself down and he clutches at John's legs tucked beneath him and tries to absorb them into himself because it's not close enough, he will never be close enough.

“Sherlock?”

He looks up. John's eyes are open, he's awake, but the lids are already drooping and he is fading quickly.

“John.”

John smiles and Sherlock can still see the tracks that the tears made on his face. He reaches over and grabs John's hand, being careful with the clip on his finger, the lines taped into his arm. John is mostly asleep but Sherlock feels the pressure on his fingers, the brief reassuring squeeze.

“Stay,” John says. “Don't go.”

“I will. I'm staying. I won't leave.” He promises,  _he promises,_ he puts  _everything he has_ into that vow. “John. I will never leave.”

John hums at him, the remains of the smile still hovering at the corners of his lips. His eyes drift close and he sighs. “Love you.” and even as he says it Sherlock watches him drift away. Morphine and blood loss and pain. Sleeping is good, Sherlock knows. Sleeping will heal him. But he wants to shake John awake and make him say it again because he doesn't quite believe it. He's not sure he'll ever quite believe it. It doesn't matter how many times those words are uttered. They are extraordinary words. They mean nothing, just a collection of syllables and sounds, but Sherlock feels something in his universe shift.

“Sherlock?”

He looks up. Douglas is in the door, exasperation and concern on his face. Sherlock is familiar with that expression. It seems to be the one which people direct at him most often.

“You were supposed to stay with him,” Sherlock snaps.

“The nurse came in. Sorry.”

Sherlock scowls and turns away. He is holding John's hand and he thinks he might be squeezing too hard so he lightens his grip. He can feel the thread of John's pulse under his fingers and he presses harder, needing to take it into himself, to coordinate it with his.

“Sherlock.”

Douglas again. Sherlock wants to snarl at him, tell him to leave, that they don't need him. But he knows he owes this man. More than his life. He owes him John's life.

“How's Carolyn?” he asks, because that's something that John would say and he realises that he should have asked.

Douglas seems to take that as invitation to enter because he walks to the other side of John's bed and lowers himself into the chair. Sherlock reads the lack of sleep, the nightmares, the image of blood and bone that he will never get out of his head, the feeling of flesh and skull collapsing into so much ground meat beneath his hands. He sees the strain as Douglas smiles. “Fine. She's a bloody awful patient. They kept her overnight for observation but let her go in the morning. Arthur took her home. They're moving John out of ICU tomorrow, by the way. They're going to come visit then.”

Sherlock feels rebellion rise in him. He doesn't want them here. He doesn't want anyone here. He wants Douglas to go away but the debt that he owes him is staggering and not even Sherlock can manage to ignore it.

“Oh,” he says, trying to imagine what John would say. “Good.”

Douglas snorts but says nothing.

Sherlock is silent. John's legs are warm and solid underneath him. He is still holding John's limp hand in his and he lets the faint thread of his pulse echo against his finger tips. He is stiff and tired and sore, but he pulls his legs up onto the bed until he is curled up on the bed at John's feet. He inhales, trying to catch the scent that is  _John,_ tea and wool and cheap shampoo. But all he can smell is drugs and blood and the dry scent of the hospital linen.

“What would you have done?” Douglas suddenly says, and his voice is oddly abrupt, something tense and determined lurking under it.

Sherlock frowns. “Done about what?”

“If...” he hesitates. There is actual fear on his face when Sherlock looks up at him. “If John had died,” he finishes in a rush.

Sherlock stares at him. He doesn't know what to say. Because  _if John had died_ is something he hasn't stopped thinking about since that moment in Cairo when Moran had spoken those words in his ear. But John hadn't died. He wouldn't die. Because Sherlock would save him, because Mycroft would step in at the last moment and make it all better, because John couldn't die. That was the point of John. To be alive so that Sherlock could function knowing that somewhere there was a John Watson in the world and he was safe. That moment in the warehouse when Sherlock had seen him fall, seen him recoil at the impact, the blood  _oh my God there was so much blood._ He can't think about it. He can't. He can't. He thinks about them taking John away and no one telling him anything, no one telling him if he would live, and he thinks about sitting in the police car, having no idea if he could even be in a world that did not have a John Watson in it.

He is shaking his head, twisting it from side to side so hard that he can feel the wrench in his neck but he can't stop, he can't stop. He clutches at it with his free hand trying to still its movement.

He is aware of Douglas rising from the chair and the next moment he feels his hand descending on his shoulder and Sherlock gives a snarl and flings it off. _“Get out!”_ he screams and part of him has no idea who it is who is shouting, has no idea where this is coming from, who this is that's yelling these things. “Fuck you! Get out! John is  _NOT! DEAD!”_ He is heaving, his entire body is shaking and Douglas is staring at him, wide-eyed and fearful and Sherlock just wants him to go, wants him to leave because how dare he,  _how dare he even talk about something like that._

“Sherlock?”

He spins around immediately because it's John who's speaking, it's John, and he's squinting up at Sherlock, his eyes heavy and blurred and Sherlock doesn't even think about it, how it's a terrible idea, how much pain John is in, how he is filled with morphine and may not even remember it. He lunges forward and kisses him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't even know that was coming. Sherlock you dweeb.


	39. Heat

It's dry and awkward, both their lips chapped from the circulating air of the hospital. John doesn't even taste like John should, the stale smell of too many drugs in his system overwhelming everything else. And Sherlock has no idea what he's doing and John is only half conscious and it takes at least two tries for Sherlock to actually find John's mouth.

But Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care. Because his heart is pounding so hard that he can hear it and he can hardly breathe. He can feel his lungs contracting inside his chest, fighting for air, closing down on nothing.

John is making a noise, something between a whimper and a hum and it is everything, it is the only sound in the world. He feels the sharp edges of dried skin on John's lips with his own, feels the catch of movement that is John responding, soft and firm and supple all at once. Sherlock opens his eyes without even realising that he had closed them and he sees John, his eyes half-lidded, the dark blue hooded with sleep and something else, something that fills Sherlock with a kind of unmanageable joy. He can feel it enter him through the porous cavity of his chest and lodge itself there until it is painfully filled, the emptiness he hadn't noticed pushed out and forgotten.

John makes a helpless sort of noise and Sherlock feels him pull back. There is a heartbeat's worth of apprehension, of terror, of denial, but then he feels the hand twisting itself into the loose material of his scrubs. “Git,” John sighs and his eyes are closed, already drifting into sleep again. “Need you,” he murmurs and the words are half drowned in unconsciousness and Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly shut and even though John doesn't smell like John he buries his head into his warm neck and breathes. It is hot and dry and the smell of hospital and blood are stifling but it is perfect. It is perfect.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “John. John. I'm so sorry.”

He crouches like that for as long as he can, until his arms are shaking and sore and his face is hot and flushed from John's heat. Only then does he pull away, staring at John's sleeping face and trying to figure out what is so different about it now, what's changed in the short minute since before he had kissed him.

“John,” he whispers, tasting the name on his tongue, wondering if that's different, too, and it is. It's changed. He has no idea how.

“Sherlock.”

He jumps. Mycroft is in the doorway, face in shadow, and Sherlock can't make out his expression, but he's getting tired of all these people who think that they are allowed to come here whenever they want.

“What do you want?” he snaps, fully aware that his face is still flushed and that his breaths are coming out in incomplete gasps.

“Do I need a reason to come and see you?”

“You invariably have one.”

Even in the shadow Sherlock can see him frown and after a moment's hesitation he watches as Mycroft comes into the room, carefully walking around the bed until he is on the other side, facing the door, and Sherlock realises what he's done. Mycroft is offering him this, this clear advantage of position: Mycroft's face revealed and Sherlock's obscured by shadow. He doesn't understand why, what game this is part of.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he says again, but softer and he knows he sounds unsure. He _is_ unsure. John's lips are still blazoned on his own.

“I came to see how you are. Surely you don't object.”

“There's nothing wrong with me.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. I came to see how John is, of course. I saw your thrice-divorced recovering alcoholic pilot friend running out of here only a moment ago and I thought something might have occurred. Clearly I was right.”

“Stay out of this, Mycroft.”

“I intend to. Not really my area, is it.”

“I'm sure Geoff would disagree.”

“It's Gregory.”

“Whatever.”

There is a fleeting look of narrow-eyed irritation on Mycroft's face and Sherlock sees it perfectly, highlighted in shadows and dim fluorescent glow, and he smirks, because while he always suspected, it was gratifying to have the confirmation. The expression is gone in an instant, however, Mycroft's features once more schooled into perfect unconcern as he glances over John's inert form and Sherlock's hand resting possessively on his thigh.

“Now that you mention it,” Mycroft says slowly, “There was something.”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course there was.”

“We need to talk about Mary.”

_Mary._ He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't care. He thinks of John layered in bandages, of the swollen red edges of the two letters she had carved into his chest that will be there for the rest of his life. He doesn't want to hear about Mary. He wants her dead, he wants to hunt her down and find her. This is his fault. This is his fault. He was supposed to have destroyed people like her, kept John safe from them, that was the whole  _point._ Why did he bother if he was just going to leave him behind with the most dangerous one of all?

“What could you possibly have to say to me about Mary that I would want to hear?” he snarls.

“You would be surprised.”

“She shot me in the chest, Mycroft. She kidnapped and tortured John.  _I really wouldn't be.”_

Mycroft looks annoyed. “You're letting sentiment get in the way. Fitting, I suppose. Sentiment might decide the outcome of this, after all.”

“What possible reason could I have to feel sentimental about Mary Morstan?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “The child, Sherlock. John's child.” He pauses, then shrugs. “Well. I say  _John's.”_

Everything in Sherlock goes on instant alert. The baby. He had nearly forgotten. He had nearly let this go. But Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. He needs to know.

“Tell me.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow then shrugs. “Yes,” he says. “Perhaps that's best. Then you can decide what John needs to know.”

And just like that Sherlock is stopped.  _John._ This belongs to John. He knows that. But at the same time he wants to hear this. What if there's something that John doesn't need to know? What if it will upset him? Sherlock can make sure he never has to find out.

“After all,” Mycroft says. “It's worked so well for you in the past, hasn't it?”

There isn't a trace of irony in his tone but it's like being bludgeoned with a steel rod nonetheless. He stares at Mycroft, wanting to spite him, wanting to demand to be told. But he knows exactly what Mycroft is saying and he hates him for it, hates him for seeing it before Sherlock had.

He scowls. “Get out Mycroft.”

“I will need to tell him, you know.”

“You can tell him when he's better.”

Mycroft smiles and it is frighteningly sympathetic and Sherlock hates him even more.

“Good night then, brother. Try to get some sleep. You're looking a bit peaky.”

Sherlock watches him leave and even though Mycroft's hands are empty, Sherlock can almost see the umbrella swinging at his side.

 


	40. Shift

By the time Sherlock is shaken awake by the nurse—curled up around John's feet, his head resting on his ankles—John is wide awake. They've removed the line of the transfusion from his arm and there is a brightness to him that wasn't there before. He is still slightly glazed from the morphine, but he looks alert and functioning and something in Sherlock releases slightly, the knot easing, a loop slipping free.

There are four people in the room, three nurses and a doctor. One of the nurses is peering at Sherlock and he catches the look she is giving his arm and he scowls, tucking it against him.

“Sherlock.”

He looks up. John is watching him, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“Let her look.”

His scowl deepens but he holds out his arm and the nurse gives him a disapproving glare as she takes in the jagged circular scab and the deep bruise surrounding it.

“It's nothing,” he snaps. “What about John?”

The doctor glances up at him and Sherlock can tell by the wary strain around his eyes that he knows all about Sherlock and has probably been warned against him. Sherlock can't even be bothered to feel smug.

“What's happening with John?” he repeats when no one answers.

“Sherlock, relax,” John says as the nurses busy themselves with removing machinery and tying up ends. “We're just being moved to another ward.”

Sherlock wants to open his mouth and argue, wants to demand that they stay where they are, that John get the best care that the hospital has to give him, that's he not well enough to be moved, that nothing is allowed to happen to John Watson, but instead his mind blinks and shuts down and Sherlock is left staring at John with his mouth half open.

_We._

He knows he's an idiot, that of course it's  _we._ They kissed last night. John loves him. He knows John loves him. Right? Of course he knows.

“You have to get off the bed,” John says. “Only for a bit though.”

_Only for a bit though._

Sherlock's head is already reeling with the implication of  _their bed_ and he doesn't even argue, sliding to his feet, feeling his joints protesting and his feet sending protests to his brain.

They don't move John from the bed, simply unlock the wheels and push the whole thing out of the room. Sherlock follows, feeling like he's part of a procession. He notices the furtive stares as they pass and he knows they're looking at John and at him, this former soldier and the strange man who won't leave him alone, trailing behind like something lost.

He follows them into the elevator into the hall and as the door slide close, trapping them all inside together, he sees John craning his head around, sees the clench of his left hand, and Sherlock is beside him in an instant, his hand curling around John's. He can't look, can't bear to look, but he knows John is smiling.

No one says anything, but when the door opens again three floors up, Sherlock stays beside the bed and when they push it into the hallway, down the long hall to the inpatient ward, he walks alongside, his right hand laced with John's left and he has never realised before how much sensation the tips of his fingers were capable of processing, the sensitivity of the palm of his hand.

He is aware of stares. When they enter the ward the staff are completely silent, heads turning to watch. They've been warned. Of course they've been warning. Sherlock knows he owes Mycroft for the next year at least.

The new room has two beds in it, both of them empty which was what he expected at this point. They are very slightly wider than the ICU beds and Sherlock's cramped muscles and sore neck feel a jolt of gratitude. He thinks of leaning against the pillow with John, their limbs pressed side by side, feeling the exhalation of John's breath against his cheek, inches away, the heat from his neck...

He is aware that John is tugging at his hand and he looks up, annoyed at the interruption, but John's eyes are tight and strained and Sherlock sees apprehension.

“John?”

“Let go, idiot,” John says, smiling tightly, and Sherlock knows he's trying to make light, that he's missing something.

“What's wrong?” he demands.

“I need to get up. Move to the other bed.”

Sherlock stares at him and he realises that John's scared. _Of the pain?_

“Okay. Let me help.”

“Sherlock, please—”

“I can do this John.”

John stares at him and though he knows that the doctor and the nurses are watching them carefully, it is only John he cares about.

It takes maybe three seconds for John to make up his mind, and when he does Sherlock can see some of the tension draining from his face, the small smile that lifts the corners of his mouth, but genuine this time, the fear almost gone.

“Yeah alright,” he says. “Just don't drop me for Christ sake.”

Sherlock gives an indignant huff and he can feel the tense disapproval of the doctor, the mild outrage from the nurses. He doesn't care. He bends over and carefully, so carefully, he slides his hands under John's shoulders, cradling the back of his head. He pulls him slowly upwards and he already feels John shaking, the shallow quickness of his breath and Sherlock is so afraid, so afraid of breaking him. But John is his. John is his to help. Sherlock did this to him and it will be Sherlock who sees him through.

John is sitting up now and Sherlock uses his whole body, pressing John against him with one arm while with his other he helps him slide his legs off the bed. John is quaking with the strain, the whole bed quivering under him and Sherlock feels it reverberating through him as well, rattling things loose that he's afraid to pick up and examine too closely. He hears the air hissing through John's clenched teeth, a frantic, controlled pattern and Sherlock aches for him, an actual physical pressure at the base of his throat.

He feels the moment John slips away, when he goes limp and sways in a way that he is definitely not supposed to and Sherlock can't help the shout of alarm that escapes him. He doesn't even protest when two sets of strong arms reach around him and John is lifted, quickly and efficiently into the new bed without even waking up.

Sherlock is shaking and he doesn't understand why, can't explain the chemical composition running through his veins.

He watches in silence as the IV is plugged in, the bed locked and the arms raised. He watches them recording vitals. It is seconds, only seconds, but it feels like hours before John starts to stir, bone white and forehead damp, retching into the towel that a nurse is holding for him, a careful hand on John's back and sympathy creasing his young face.

“He's fine,” another nurse says, and Sherlock realises that it's him that she's talking to, the same one who look at his arm before and tutted her disapproval. There is no disapproval on her face now, just a warm sympathy that Sherlock has a difficult time processing. “This is very normal. The first time sitting up.”

“I know,” he snaps, or tries to, but it comes out weak and desperate sounding.

She seems to understand because after a brief hesitation she nods. “You must love each other very much,” she says with a last smile and then turns away and Sherlock is left staring at John, propped to almost forty-five degrees by the angle of the bed, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he tries to find his equilibrium.

“Shit,” John says. “Shit, I'm sorry. Sherlock.” He opens his eyes, casting them about and they find Sherlock almost immediately. “You alright?” he demands and Sherlock nods, knowing that this shouldn't be about him. But he is still shaking from the feeling of John going so abruptly limp in his arms and he can't help it. He nods jerkily and he sees the clench of John's left hand even as he frantically traces the slowly returning colour to his face.

The nurses are still busy and the doctor is peeling back the edge of the bandage over John's right shoulder and though Sherlock knows this is fascinating, the rearrangement of flesh, the destruction of muscle and artery and skin, and that part of him wants to see, the larger part of him wants to turn away and leave the room, to never have to see it, to deny it even being there. Because this isn't a bullet hole or a crime scene. This is John, destroyed and damaged before him, the thing that almost took him away.

He turns away abruptly and he knows that John is watching him. He can feel the pressure of his eyes and he wants to turn back, to go to him and take his hand, twist those clenching fingers with his own. But he thinks he's about to be ill and he doesn't understand because it's only blood, just tissue. He tries to tell himself that and he fails.

“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock hears the strain in it, the renewed pain, and slowly he turns, starting with his head, the rest of his body following in turn. “Sherlock?”

It's a plea. And Sherlock can't pretend he doesn't understand.

“Please. You don't have to look, yeah? Just. Please?”

The gunshot wound is exposed now and Sherlock can see the place where the bullet actually entered and the larger area where the flesh was cut away to get at the ruined artery underneath. The staples are an ugly mark against the already ruined shoulder.

“Sherlock?”

The doctor has begun to peel the tape back on the rest of John's chest and Sherlock watches, his breath coming in shallow pants. He sees the first arch of the _M,_ sees where the knife caught on the corner, digging in for a moment before sliding on. He watches the slow reveal of the stem dragging down his chest, the second line slicing through the nipple. He wants to look away. He can feel his stomach churning and he can't process this, this damage, red and angry on John Watson's narrow frame.

“Sherlock.”

He tears his eyes away and sees John watching him, still pale, a slight sheen of sweat on the top of his lip.

“Please.”

Sherlock hesitates. Then he nods. He walks over, past the nurses, to John Watson's side.

“I'm here,” he says, and he takes John's hand.

 


	41. Undone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW time kids.

John is grateful when the doctor leaves. He is more grateful when the nurses finish, tucking the sheet around his legs, his morphine drip set up beside the bed, the controls lit up within reach. He wants to press that button but he doesn't. He is still reeling from the move, both hyper aware and unable to focus. He can feel the scrape of the sheets against his skin, every fibre of the cotton like nettles dragging over him. He can hardly breathe, the pain is a physical weight on his chest and it hurts _oh God it hurts_ and he doesn't care that he's a doctor, that he's been through this before, because he is aware, utterly aware right now, of every cell in his body lighting up like a brand.

Sherlock is watching him and John forces himself to smile because he looks terrified, white-faced and wide-eyed, and even that tiny convulsion of facial muscles makes his whole body clench. His hands tightens automatically and the pain is a blaze of fire chasing a trail of gasoline to his shoulder. He swears he can feel every tear of tissue and sinew and nerve.

“John, take the morphine.” Sherlock says and John gives a minute shake of his head.

“I need to think.”

“You're not going to think like this.”

“Sherl—”

Sherlock's fingers are already on the buttons and John is furious because how dare Sherlock ignore him, how dare he make this decision for him.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Don't you dare make me stand here and watch you do this,” Sherlock snarls and he presses the button again. John watches the line light up and he can't help it. He is so relieved. The effect is almost instantaneous, the fire running through him abruptly doused and he can feel the easing of his chest. The weight separates into precise lines of pressure that he can trace without even having to look at them. He knows what shape they take because he remembers tracing every line in its birth:  _MW._ It's a brand and he knows it and he wants to be furious about it, he wants to rage and weep and scream, but the morphine is just so good, like falling into a pool of water on a hot day. Everything evaporates, everything is fine.

“Oh my God,” he sighs.

Sherlock is watching him carefully and John can't help it. He smiles, can feel the drag of muscles, slightly numbed, everything a little bit distant. He could reach if he tried, but he doesn't really want to bother.

“You're an idiot,” Sherlock snaps.

“You're one to talk.  _'It's just transport.'”_

“Shut up. Shut up!”

John giggles. “Fuck. Sherlock turn it down I can feel my head floating away.” He giggles again because the image is hilarious, his head ballooning upwards, his spinal cord the string.

Sherlock glares at him skeptically but he pushes the little minus sign and John watches the line go down. He is dazed and he can't think properly and he knows there's something he needs to think about but he's staring at Sherlock now and he's remembering. He's remembering chapped lips against his own, a clumsy, impulsive kiss, dark eyes far too close.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“You kissed me.”

Sherlock freezes, his entire body going still like a wild animal caught out in the open. John can practically see the panic behind his eyes. His thoughts are practically scrawled across his forehead, a series of  _Shitshitshit he wasn't supposed to remember, what do I say, is he happy, should I do it again?_ John can almost hear it.

“Erm,” Sherlock says.

“Last night,” John presses.

Sherlock scowls at him and John snorts.  _Going for defensive then._

“You kissed back,” Sherlock accused, as if some crime had been committed, and John wants to laugh because he can read him perfectly and it's such a strange turn of events that he actually wonders if the morphine is making him hallucinate.

“Sherlock, I was half conscious and high on morphine.”

He knows this was the wrong thing to say as soon as it leaves his mouth but it's too late. Sherlock is already retreating, those eyes blinkering shut, his face suddenly wiped clean.  _No no no no no_ Jesus bloody Christ he is an idiot.

“Sherlock, Jesus no. Sherlock. I was kidding. I was joking.”

It's too late. He can see the defenses rising, every touch, every look, every time John opened his eyes the last two days to find Sherlock pressed against him—they are fading, they are going, John is losing that with every step backwards that Sherlock takes. He wants to go after him, wants to grab Sherlock by the arms and drag him forcibly back, but he can't, he can't because he's stuck here because of some arsehole with a gun.

“Sherlock! I swear to God if you don't come back here I will come after you.”

Sherlock is at least five feet away, an ungodly amount of space, but John sees him hesitate and something like indecision crosses his face. He doesn't come closer, though, staring at John as if he's someone unfamiliar and John hates it, hates that look, wants to claw it from Sherlock's face. He starts to move, shuffling his legs to the side of the bed and even through the morphine he can feel it, the pressure of muscles that need to be healed, the lancing pain that wants to rip him apart even through the muffled layer of the drug. He can feel his head start to float away again, the top coming off, lights sparking behind his eyes. He is floating and falling, gravity warring with itself, pulling him apart and he wants to let go, just float or fall it doesn't matter.

Except that there are arms around him suddenly, hard and lean and he feels the long heat of another body pressed against his and he can feel himself centring as gravity makes up its mind. He is being lowered back onto the pillow, his legs pushed back onto the bed and he shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight, trying to keep everything from flying out.

“John, I wouldn't—I didn't—“

It's Sherlock, his voice muttering against his hear, his voice soft and desperate and on the edge of being broken.

He needs to talk but he's afraid if he opens his mouth now he's going to be sick.

Sherlock is pressed against him. John can feel his heat all the way down his body, the weight of his legs pushed against his, the soft warmth of his breath in the crook of his neck. He can feel the curls against his cheek and he wants to touch them, wants to push his face against them and breathe them in.

“John John John John.” Sherlock is saying his name like it means something, like there's a secret in it that he's trying to drag out and John makes a sound, feeling the nausea slowly fade away.

“Fuck,” he moans. He has never been so miserable and yet there is something in him that is soaring and he's squinting against the sun because it's too bright.

“John. You kissed back. You kissed back.”

“I know. I know. Jesus, I know. I'm sorry. Fuck I hate morphine. Jesus, Sherlock. How many times do I need to tell you that I love you?”

He feels Sherlock freeze against him and John wants to cry because how is this man even real? How has he gone this long without someone telling him these things that even now he doesn't believe it?

“Sherlock. Jesus.”

Sherlock, sprawled on the bed beside him, slunk into the small space between John and the bed rail, turns his head up and John can see it, the intention marked clear in his face. John has never felt less attractive in his life, and if it were anyone else in the world he would turn away and refuse. But this is Sherlock and that isn't even a question anymore.

The meeting of their lips is a tentative thing, dry and almost unpleasant. John has never needed a shower more and even Sherlock smells of stale hospital air, his mouth sticky with dehydration. But John has never felt anything more real than the firm stretch of lip grazing his own, sucking down and dragging and John lets him, gives him this, this moment of dominance before he makes up his mind and presses forward, his mouth over Sherlock's and his tongue pressing for entry at Sherlock's lips.

And there isn't even a hesitation. Sherlock gives in, his lips parting and John can feel himself being dragged in. He's falling headfirst and it is dangerous and it is utterly subsuming but he doesn't even think about stopping. He pushes forward with his tongue, dragging his lips over Sherlock's and the dryness is gone, only a wet heat and the hesitant press of Sherlock's tongue against his.

There are noises coming from Sherlock, high pitched and needy, something breaking and fitting back together, and John can't even process them aside from _oh my God oh my God oh my God_ because he is kissing Sherlock, _he is kissing Sherlock,_ he doesn't even understand how he came to be here and at the same time he can't even understand how it ever took them this long. There is desperation and need, such need in the push of Sherlock's hips against his side. His legs are sliding over John's, tugging them together, his toes flexing and looking for purchase and John wants to do something, wants to reach for him and grab him and push him over and straddle his hips, pushing their cocks together until the thin material of the hospital scrubs are wet and salty and Sherlock is crying out, his voice low and begging as John makes him come without touching him once.

He can see it, he can  _taste_ it, and in Sherlock's voice, crying out now in wordless begging syllables, he can  _hear it_ . John has no idea how he let it get this far but he knows he needs to stop because he can hear his heart monitor beeping frantically in the background and he's a doctor, he knows this is a bit not good, that the last thing his body needs is this kind of strain, but he doesn't know if he can do anything else.

Sherlock is completely hard against him and rutting against John's thigh and John can't help it, he pulls back, dragging his mouth away from Sherlock's and the sound Sherlock makes is enough to make John wish that they had waited until he could do this properly because he is actually hard under the coarse material of the hospital gown and he didn't even think that could happen.

He knows this is such a terrible idea, but Sherlock's hips are stuttering and his eyes are hooded and glazed and John's never seen him like this before, every edge softened, every thought gone.

“Sherlock, touch yourself for me,” he says and Sherlock makes a sound halfway between a cry and a whimper.

“Sherlock, let me watch you, please.”

And Sherlock's hand is moving, sliding downwards and fumbling with the drawstring on his trousers. He is shaking so hard that it takes three tries but when finally the knot falls away he pushes his hand eagerly inside them and it's only John's voice that stops him, soft in his ear.

“No, Sherlock. Let me see.”

Sherlock moans, a sound that starts somewhere at the base of his belly, dragging upwards almost involuntarily, and John watches, his eyes wide and his breath coming in sharp, shallow pants as Sherlock pushes the scrub trousers down below his hips and John can't help but stare as his cock comes free, long and narrow like the rest of him, flushed bright red and wet with precum.

“Oh my God,” John breathes. “Sherlock. I can't wait to take you in my mouth. I can't wait to taste you. I want you inside me. Jesus, Sherlock, touch yourself. Let me see you come.”

Sherlock is broken at his side, his face a wreckage of desperation, and John is holding his breath as he watches Sherlock's hand slide downwards, his fingers circling his cock and John can hardly breathe, is utterly entranced by that hand, fingers pale against the flushed heat of its head. He starts to gasp as Sherlock's hand begins to pump, sliding awkwardly against the foreskin, but it doesn't matter because he is so close to coming, so close, and John can read it in the whine of his voice and the stutter of his hips and he leans close to Sherlock's ear. “Sherlock. Come for me now.”

And Sherlock does, shouting out with a sudden cry that John is sure will have half the ward running into the room. But he doesn't care because Sherlock is sobbing against him, actual tears on his face and John would give anything to be able to hold him but he can't, he can't, so he kisses his head, his forehead, his ear, anywhere he can reach and he murmurs into the heat of his flushed skin, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to allonsys_girl for letting me steal her imagery and helping me with drugs and pain. Fire chasing a line of petrol is something I read in her fic Silhouettes and it stuck and she kindly allowed me to steal it for my own purposes. (Having said that, go read Silhouettes: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1437331/chapters/3022786)


	42. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million universes of gratitude for belle-of-the-fall for helping me with my plotting troubles, and for cartopathy for being my Consulting Mycroft and for providing David with a last name.

John wakes to the glare of daylight and the long hot line of a body pressed against his side. There is the briefest moment in which he doesn't know where he is, a dizzying uncertainty in which he can't quite remember why everything in him is aching and his head is muffled in a morphine buzz. But then the body beside him shifts, a small sigh sounding against John's ear and instantly he remembers. Mary, Moran, an empty warehouse and too many guns. He remembers Sherlock and he remembers _I love you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. John, I'm so sorry. I love you._ He remembers gunshots and burning pain and the world sliding away, reduced to two frightened eyes the same colour as oxidised copper, and he remembers waking up, he remembers Sherlock, and he opens his eyes because he knows whose body is pressed so closely against his and it is glorious, it is wonderful, it is unbelievable.

“Sherlock,” he says, because the name suddenly has a whole new meaning on his lips and he wants to hear it, he wants to hear the change for himself, and he can't help but grin because  _ there it is, _ he hears it, actual audible proof in his own voice.

The black curls move against his cheek and there is a moan from the hollow of his neck. A moment later Sherlock's head comes up, his eyes heavy and blinking. They are blue this morning, a glorious cerulean that makes John think of summer and warmth and the smell of grass. He smiles stupidly because he can't help it, because Sherlock like this, with his face stripped of pretense, completely relaxed, looks so young, so beautiful.

“John,” Sherlock sighs, and there is wonder in his tone and a deeply restrained joy. “John,” he says again and John is grinning. He can't help it. “I love you,” says Sherlock.

John kisses him and he swears he can taste the words still lingering on his tongue. Sherlock's lips move languidly and he is sighing into John's mouth and John knows that he could listen to this sound forever, lay here unmoving for the rest of eternity with nothing but Sherlock and his lips and his sighs.

They break apart slowly, a parting that is so natural that John doesn't even feel torn, can't even imagine missing him because he is right here, he will always be right here, there will never be a time when he won't be able to reach up and kiss those lips at any time that he wants.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and languid and he feels the word rub along his tongue and settle there.

Sherlock smiles, one of those smiles that are real, that John knows so well because there were entire months that passed during which he was the only one who could goad it from him. A flush of colour is sliding up Sherlock's cheeks and John's smile widens impossibly. He doesn't even understand this level of happiness. Part of him is numb because he doesn't know how to process this much unfettered emotion all at once.

“You're real,” he says and he hears the wonder in his own voice now, and Sherlock gives a huff of laughter and pushes his nose into John's neck, nuzzling there.

“Don't be an idiot, John,” he says.

John giggles because it's perfect, it's so perfect. His left arm is half buried under Sherlock's head and he tightens its circle, trying to draw him closer because he doesn't care that there is no space between them, that his hospital gown is sticking to him uncomfortably, that he is flushed and too hot and that this bed is not made for two people. He pulls at Sherlock until he is almost on top of him and Sherlock is sighing under his chin, his limbs sprawled over him and John feels the lancing bright pain in his right shoulder and the sensitive catch of bandages pressed into his mutilated chest, but he doesn't care. The morphine muffles everything and _ there is Sherlock. _

“You know, I'd really like to know,” he says and abruptly he feels Sherlock shift over him, pulling back slightly to look him in the eye, and his face is a complicated array of expressions that John doesn't quite know how to read, fear, exhaustion, apprehension, wariness.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

John frowns slightly, trying to clear his head, because he senses that this is important, that he can't screw this up. “Whatever you want to tell me. About the first time, that you never told me about. The two years. After Bart's.” He stops, swallowing. “And this time. Mycroft said Cairo.”

Sherlock's brow furrows. “Mycroft told you where I was?”

“When he brought me the phone. I nearly went straight to the airport but he stopped me. Said that you were coming home.”

Sherlock is staring at him, eyes wide and blue and John wonders what he's said wrong.

Then Sherlock sighs and lets his head fall onto John's chest. “For God's sake,” he mutters. “We're going to be owing him favours for the rest of our lives.”

There is the sound of a throat clearing and then a familiar drawling voice that has Sherlock tensing and John flinching in surprise, “Not quite that long, brother dear. But nearly.”

“Hello Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs, rolling carefully off of John and lowering himself gingerly to the floor. “What do we owe the pleasure?”

Mycroft ignores him, stepping into the room and peering critically at John and John feels like he is being evaluated, the state of his injuries carefully deduced and he feels a sudden clenching in the pit of his stomach.

“What's going on?” he asks. The morphine is a still a coloured haze in his mind but he is fighting it because he knows that look on Mycroft's face, that hesitation and faint regret.

Mycroft takes a breath and John sees the flickering glance to Sherlock, who is standing at the window with his back to the room, his shoulders tense.

“Sherlock?” John asks. “Do you know what this is about?”

Sherlock shrugs but he doesn't turn around.

Mycroft's eyes narrow minutely and he turns back to John. “I've been waiting for this. Sherlock insisted I discuss the matter with you.” He rolls his eyes. “Sentiment.”

John stares at him, trying to pick out the clues from his face, but he doesn't know why he bothers. He knows what this is about. He's been trying so hard not to think about it since waking up with a head almost clear this morning.

“Mary,” he says, and he can see Sherlock flinch out of the corner of his eye.

Mycroft looks at him, his gaze careful and calculating. “Indeed. Mary.”

There is a tense silence in which Mycroft stares at John and John stares belligerently back, and surprisingly it is Sherlock who breaks it, turning suddenly from the window and walking back to the bed where he sits down on its edge and takes John's hand tightly in his own.

“Just tell us, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, and despite John's anxiety, the exhaustion of having to think about it in the first place, he feels the sudden swell of happiness rise up again and he knows that it's okay. Or in any case, it _will_ be.

Mycroft stares at them, at their hands clasped tightly between them, and there is a curious expression on his face. If it weren't Mycroft, John would almost say there was something near to _softness_ in his expression, some latent well of unexplored sentiment.

“Mary,” says Mycroft, his voice distracted and soft, and his eyes jump away from their linked hands and land on John. Then, more sharply, “She's alive.”

“The baby?” John asks, though he knows, he knows it's okay, that it must be. Surely someone would have said something before this if it wasn't.

“Mary's and the baby's vitals are being monitored around the clock. I've been assured there is nothing wrong with the child.” He narrows his eyes keenly at John. “That was a very good shot under the circumstances, Doctor Watson.”

John shrugs uncomfortably. Despite of what she is, what she's done, she is still his wife, and the memory of his finger on that trigger as he had taken aim for the woman carrying his child will never leave him. “Instinct,” he says awkwardly.

“It was a good instinct,” Mycroft said and for a brief moment his lips are drawn into a tight tense line and there is almost something like satisfaction on his features.

“Sentiment, brother?” Sherlock murmurs and Mycroft's eyes skip to him.

“It would not, in the end, give me any pleasure to see you hurt, Sherlock, in spite of what you think.”

“Okay, okay,” John sighs, frowning at them both warningly. “No fighting now, boys.” He looks back at Mycroft because he knows that isn't all. “What else, Mycroft? There's still something you're not telling us.”

For the first time in...well... _ever,_ Mycroft looks distinctly uncomfortable and John can feel the anxiety pushing at the hazy edges of the morphine. He feels almost sick and he knows he looks it too because Sherlock's hand suddenly tightens around his own and he feels the shift in the bed as he moves closer until they are touching, thigh to shoulder, and Sherlock moves John's hand to his lap and surrounds it with both his palms.

“Stop being dramatic and tell us, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarls.

Mycroft nods but he is still looking at John with that odd uncertainty in his face, and John can feel his stomach drop as he says, “Tell me, Doctor Watson. What do you know about Mary's relationship with David Cardigan?”

He knows. He knows instantly. But he shakes his head anyway, a single tight jerk back and forth and he looks at Mycroft and there is something dangerous in his eyes.

“There is no relationship with David,” he says and he can hear the warning in his own voice. “They ended it. Years ago. It was over. She said it wasn't important. It didn't last. Three months. She said they dated for three months. They're friends.”

He is aware of Sherlock's eyes on him and the heat of his palms around his hand. He clenches his fist between them and Sherlock's hands tighten, surrounding him. Mycroft is watching him closely and John can see a certain wariness in his expression.

“John—” Mycroft starts and John hates that, he _hates_ when Mycroft calls him _John_ because he knows what it means. It means he's sorry, it means he's pitying him, it means that something is happening that is going to turn everything upside down and he can't handle that, he can't deal with that right now. He is done with upside down, he is finished. He concentrates on the feel of Sherlock's hands around his, the rough edge of calluses and the harsh scrape of chapped skin. He concentrates on the pressure of each individual finger, the line and angle of every knuckle wrapping itself around his fist. _This. This is real. Sherlock is real. This is what I have. This is what matters._

“No,” John says and he can't look at Mycroft, can't look at Sherlock. He stares at the bar at the foot of the bed and feels the anger, the grief, the disgust, the doubt, the desperation, all roll through him and make him choke. He wants to hurt something. He wants to scream. He wants to feel things breaking under his hands.

“No,” he says again. “No. I don't care. I don't care. I don't want to know. Just...piss off, Mycroft.”

“John,” Sherlock says gently and John almost snatches his hand away but he won't. _He won't._ Mary has been standing between him and Sherlock for _months._ She has been standing between _this_ and he refuses to let that happen again. She is separate. She is nothing. She is gone.

He knows Sherlock is aware of the tension in him though because he feels the convulsive grip and then abruptly the opening of his palms, Sherlock setting him free, and John snatches at those hands, twisting them up with his own, and it's awkward and slightly painful but he doesn't care. He feels Sherlock's surprised hesitation and the quick flicker of his glance, and then those hands are back, settling over his, surrounding it again.

“Listen,” he says, and he forces himself to breathe. “I just...I don't care. It doesn't make a difference. She's my daughter, Mycroft. _She's mine.”_

“Ours,” says Sherlock and John almost misses it, but he doesn't, and he can feel the odd swell again as everything else is forgotten in the face of the man beside him. He tugs at the hands over his and Sherlock understands, he understands instantly, because he is leaning down and then they are kissing and John wants to pull Sherlock into himself because he doesn't think he will ever be near enough, he will always want to be closer.

For the second time the sound of Mycroft clearing his throat drags them apart, but there is no startled jumping this time. Sherlock pulls away slowly and they are smiling at each other, far too wide to contain.

“As touching a sentiment as that is, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says. “There is the issue of legal rights. Should David claim—”

“No,” John interrupts and this is the second time he's done this to Mycroft in this conversation alone and he wonders how many passes he'll get before he finds a sniper on his tail. “Make this go away,” he says. “You know you can. Just make this go away, Mycroft. I don't care what it takes. I don't care what you want from me in return. The baby goes to m—us. It goes to us.”

Mycroft's face is impassive as the British Government slips back into place. “As you say.” He gives a nod and begins to turn but probably for the first time it's John himself who stops him, calls him back.

“Wait, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stops, his eyebrows raised as he half turns back to look at him.

“Mary. What happens to her?”

“As soon as she can be moved she will be transferred to Bronzefield, in Surrey.”

“And she'll be taken care of? I mean, the baby. The baby will be fine?”

Mycroft's other eyebrow raises. “Honestly, John,” he says. “What sort of monster do you take me for?”

He turns around and walks away and John watches him go with a sense of relief and resignation. The use of his name is not lost on him. He turns to ask Sherlock what part of that conversation he had missed and finds himself being watched by blue eyes light and affectionate.

John can't help it. He smiles. “Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” Sherlock murmurs back, and he clambers into the bed next to John, pressing himself tightly against his side.

 


	43. For John

It takes three whole days after Mycroft's visit for Sherlock to start to go a little mad. Exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition. They are easy things to fix. John sits beside Sherlock and nags him into taking every bite of food and every sip of tea. He watches keenly every swallow and slowly Sherlock can feel the aches begin to fade away, the exhaustion lifting, the gears of his brain slipping back into place. John is safe. John is here. And they are both going home. Eventually.

But as sleep is no longer a priority, Sherlock realises that he's getting bored again. He spends hours snugged beside John and it feels right, it feels proper. He concentrates on the sound of a foreign heart beating behind his ribs and he knows that if this were the end, if he had ever had a goal in his life, this would be it. This is what he's been fighting for for years without once having realised that he'd been fighting at all.

But...this isn't the end, is it?

Even worse, John has somehow become even more distracting. It's almost shocking how much space a single man can take up on his hard drive. Every file is coded with John's name and in his Mind Palace, every corridor he goes down, every door he opens, there is some sign of John evident in the decor, the organisation, the filing system, the colour scheme.

In one room he goes into there is a chair, red and somewhat dilapidated, and he has no idea why it's there until he remembers that time when John spilt tea all over it after they had stayed up all night decoding text messages. In another, an oatmeal jumper hangs innocuously behind the door and for a moment Sherlock can't think why, until he spots the blood stain at the sleeve and he remembers John cursing because his favourite jumper had been ruined when Sherlock couldn't keep his mouth shut and he had been forced to defend him in a bar fight.

Sherlock finds him everywhere and he thinks that he should mind, that this should bother him, this slow invasion of the most intimate part of him. But it doesn't. It seems to have the opposite effect, knowing that no matter what John is there, for everything, not matter how small or catastrophic. He notices the reorganising of the rooms, the fact that what once had been the bedroom he had grown up in has morphed into the kitchen at 221B, and that every time he goes into it there are invariably two cups of tea steaming on the table. He thinks he should mind and so he spends a great deal of time constructing a new room in which not a scrap of John exists, but after that first triumphant moment directly after completion, he realises he hates it. He hangs pictures of Victor Trevor, of mummy and dad and a faded one of Redbeard. In a small corner he even puts one up of Mycroft, from long ago, when he had still been Myc. But nothing helps. It's empty and barren, and after an hour of frustrated rearranging he leaves, locking the door behind him and deliberately losing the key.

The day after Mycroft's visit John had gotten out of bed for the first time on his own, and the day after that he had been allowed his first shower. They had removed the bandages and disconnected his IV line and the monitors and Sherlock had been the one to go into the bathroom with him, standing with him under the spray with his hands on his hips for support while days of blood, sweat, filth, and fear washed away. It had been gruesome, seeing John without the covering bandages. He looked like something sewn together from scraps and it made Sherlock angry and ill all over again, looking at the ruin of flesh that should have been his. One day, perhaps, he would find it fascinating, probing at the silvered lines of old scars and remembering the time they had almost died, but at that moment he had wanted nothing more than to prowl his way through the hospital and find the person who had done this, even if it meant going room to room and inspecting each bed one at a time. Sherlock had almost turned away from John, had almost decided that it was too much, that he couldn't take it. But at the last instant he had caught the way John had studiously avoided his own reflection in the small mirror, how he was careful not to let his eyes stray down his own body, and Sherlock stops himself just in time.

_For John. For John._

He had helped John to wash, running careful fingers around staples and sutures, inspecting each wound with careful, critical eyes, and the whole time John had stood with his head pointing upwards and his face tight with distress.

That night, his body clean and his wounds redressed, a new IV placed and fresh linen on the bed, Sherlock had lain beside him in the darkened room and made him come, his tongue lapping slow circles over the tip of John's cock till he had been whimpering and begging for release, his hands fisted tightly in the sheets. Sherlock had given it to him, sliding his lips around the hard circle of his shaft and pulling up and down three times before John had given a muffled shout and come hot into Sherlock's mouth, pulsing and shivering against his tongue. And afterwards, straddling John's thighs, Sherlock had taken himself in hand, barely even needing the stimulation before coming over John's bare stomach with a cry.

But then morning had come, and three days after Mycroft's visit, Sherlock finds himself growing impatient. He hates this room, hates the small bed with the coarse synthetic linen, the fact that John has to keep himself covered because Sherlock wants to see him, all the time wants to be able to look at John and touch John whenever he wants. He hates that there are nurses wandering in and out, checking John's morphine drip, his pain levels, his bandages and his wounds, endlessly recording things that haven't changed in hours. He hates the fear that if he leaves, if he walks out of the room for even an instant something will happen, John will disappear or the spell that they are under will snap and none of this will have happened. He hates that he's afraid that John won't love him anymore if he is given even a seconds opportunity to think about it. So he paces and he mutters and he snarls at the nurses and he vanishes into his mind palace where he sits in John's red chair and replays the sound of his voice over and over in his head, _I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock._

But when he comes out of it, snapping back to the hospital room with a blink, he realises that the voice isn't only in his head. John's face is turned into his neck and he hears the slow sigh of words being pressed there: “I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much. I love you. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Sherlock. I love you. You know that, right?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Then please, please go take a walk.”

Sherlock stiffens. “You don't want me.”

“Don't be an ass. There are even words for how much I want you. Jesus Christ, Sherlock. But I know when you're bored. I know _you._ You don't have to stay here, watching me sleep or read. Go take a walk. Go find us some tea. _Real_ tea, please. Not this travesty of luke warm water and leaves.”

Sherlock hesitates, because he'd like to. He thinks of leaving the room, of moving through the halls, of feeling the rush of movement around him that only other people could bring.

“What if something happens while I'm gone?”

“Nothing will happen. They're probably going to let us leave tomorrow. I'm up and moving, I'm not using the morphine as heavily anymore. They know I won't be alone at home. Please, Sherlock. I don't want to think that I'm keeping you from doing what you want. I'll be here when you get back. I will _always_ be here. As long as you promise that you will come back. No pretending to die. Do you understand? Because then I really will have to kill you.”

Sherlock looks at him and he knows that through the crooked smile John is utterly serious. He feels his own lips tug into a grin. “I'm coming back, John Watson.”

“You'd better, you wanker.”

They kiss and it's long and lingering and there's no urgency in it, none of the unbearable fire that makes Sherlock want to beg into John's mouth. It's slow and sweet and filled with warmth and Sherlock wonders if maybe he was wrong about wanting to leave after all.

But John pulls back and there is a smile on his lips, soft and affectionate, and he gives Sherlock a nudge. “Go,” he says. “I'll see you in a bit.”

Sherlock grins, presses a last kiss to his lips, then swings out of the bed. Slippers have appeared at some point in the last couple of days and he slides them on, listening to their staccato tap on the linoleum floor.

He gives a last glance to John as he reaches the door, taking in his tired eyes and his smile, taking in the fact that _he is alive_ and he is _Sherlock's,_ and with a steeling breath Sherlock opens the door and steps out into the corridor.

It is glorious, a sudden flood of information that comes at him from every direction. It's almost too much and part of him is urging him to turn back, to return to John's side, to slip under the horrible hospital sheets and burrow himself into his warmth.

But he won't, partly because he knows John will throw him back out again and partly because he knows he needs this. He knows they both need this. And he realises it's not that he wants to go back in to John, but that he wants John to come out here with him.

 _Not yet,_ he tells himself. _Soon, though._ Except not actually because in three months Mary will give birth and then they will have a baby. _A baby. Oh my God._

He knows. He knows there is no choice. That there isn't even a question. But he thinks of having John Watson to himself, of Baker Street with just them in it, and he feels something well in him that's so far beyond what he knows as happiness that he doesn't know what to name it.

No. No. This isn't a choice he gets to make. He chooses John, entirely and completely, and if John comes with a daughter, he is willing to accept that. He is willing to embrace that. And it will be theirs. It will be _theirs._ _Their_ bed. _Their_ cat. _Their_ daughter.

He is resolute and as he gets into the elevator he is already creating baby formulas in his head.

He reaches the ground floor and gets off, trying to decide on the difference between regular and organic diapers, when he becomes aware of the focus of the crowd. He looks up and he feels the rage rise fiercely in his chest.

It's Mary, her belly distended before her and her right arm in a sling. She is in a wheelchair surrounded by four guards in black uniforms and heavy guns strapped holstered at their waists. She is handcuffed to the chair and Sherlock stares at her, watching along with the rest of the horde that is populating the lobby as she is slowly escorted out.

He wants to run forward. He wants to charge her, steal one of those guns and shoot her. He could do it. He knows he could do. They are intent on their prisoner and no one is looking at him.

He is moving before he realises it, the length of his strides reducing the distance between them. They are moving slowly, they aren't paying attention. He could do this. He could do this so easily. He thinks of the scars that John will always have on his chest. His thinks of the brand that he will see every time he looks in the mirror. He thinks of blue eyes fading shut as John bleeds into a concrete floor and Sherlock not knowing, _not knowing_ if he will ever see him again, not even knowing whether or not he'll ever find out of he had survived. He thinks of Moran and Moriarty and the years he spent thinking John was safe, only to come home and find that the biggest threat to his safety had been sleeping beside him all along.

He is close. So close. He is reaching for the gun and he feels the coldness of the metal against the tips of his fingers when there is suddenly an arm around him, then two, and he gives a shout of frustration and anger and he is fighting but there are two of them and he is being wrestled to the floor.

He is panting, half sobbing with his arms twisted behind him and he feels the pressure of a knee at the small of his back and someone drops into a crouch in front of him and he feels a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice says, “Let him up.”

The pressure is gone, his arms released, but he stays on the floor, his fingers twisting in his hair and heaving, breathing in the cold air of the tile floor.

“Sherlock?”

“Piss off, Greg.”

“Oh, so you do know my name.”

“Fuck off.” He pushes himself off the floor and he is aware that every eye is now fixed on him. He ignores them because Mary is there. The procession has stopped and the four guards are standing at alert attention, their guns out but pointing at the floor, as Sherlock fights his way to his feet. But he ignores them. He ignores all of them, because Mary is here, twisted around in the chair to stare at him, and when his eyes meet hers he is instantly familiar with that expression on her face, the cold, tense gaze from the first time she had tried to kill him in Magnussen's office, then later at the empty house in Leinster Gardens, and that same night at the flat in 221B as John raged against his own futility. He knows that face and he wonders why it sends such a chill of foreboding running up his spine when he sees it.

“You almost destroyed him,” he says and he's aware that his voice is shaking.

“You did destroy him,” she says, her expression unchanging. “I could have saved him.”

“I won't let you touch him again. There is nothing I won't do to make sure you _never hurt him again.”_

He sees the flicker of what might be a smile at the corner of her mouth and he recognises that, too. That brief flicker of expression right before she had pulled the trigger that night, so long ago and not that very long at all.

“No?” she says, then shrugs and he watches as she turns away, dismissing him, and the four guards are wheeling her away and he wants to do something, he wants to _destroy_ her.

“Sherlock.” A heavy hand comes down on his shoulder and grips hard. “Let it go.”

He turns and Lestrade is watching him, a warning clear on his face, and Sherlock feels the urge to punch him. It's so unlike him that it's enough to drag him out of his own head and he stare at Lestrade, trying to get his heart back under control.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

Lestrade shrugs. “Just visiting. John called, asked me to bring some cold cases to entertain you for a few hours.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Quite the sense of timing.”

He doesn't miss the faint flush that rises to Lestrade's face and the way his eyes skitter nervously away. “Coincidence,” he says. “Are you heading back up?”

Sherlock is aware that Lestrade's hand is still clamped around his arm and he shakes it off. “John wants real tea.”

“Yeah, wouldn't mind one of those myself. Come on, cart's over here. Do you even have any money?”

Sherlock scowls at him, but he can feel himself shifting back towards normal and he follows him without a word.

They buy three cups and Sherlock prepares his and John's. Lestrade sets up a low stream of inconsequential chatter as they ride the lift to the seventh floor and by the time they walk down the corridor to his and John's room, he wants to tell him to shut up.

They reach the room and push through to find John sitting up in bed with a book. He looks up as they enter and after a brief acknowledgement of Lestrade, he turns his eyes fully on Sherlock and he smiles and Sherlock almost can't breathe from the power behind it, the joy. He hadn't known it was possible to look at someone like that.

He walks over, far more eagerly than he means to, aware of the relief he feels in seeing John again, the sudden drop of tension that he hadn't even realised he'd been carrying. He leans over and kisses him, a soft, swift meeting of lips, before he pulls back and gives John his tea.

“Thanks, love,” John says. “Find anything fun?”

Sherlock doesn't even hesitate. He smiles and shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Super duper important note from the author!
> 
> So way back when when I wrote this story, I was having a lot of trouble figuring out an ending. I had certain ideas I wanted to play with but a lot of people commenting and reading made it fairly easy for me to discern that such ideas were perhaps not quite conducive to what they were expecting. I probably should have ignored it and just done what I want, but to be honest I'd gotten to the point where I needed to move on to a new project and so I caved because it would have been easier and far shorter.
> 
> Months later now, though, I'm happy to say that an alternative ending to this story now does in fact exist. You'll notice this work exists as a series with two parts. The first part is this bit you're reading, and the second part is the alternative ending.
> 
> The original ending of this story, which comprises Chapter 44 of this part, is...well...a bit vague. It leaves a lot of odds and ends unresolved and it introduces the idea of parentlock. The fact that I'm not a fan of parentlock (at all) is the major reason I decided to write an Alternative Ending to this story, but also there were just too many things I had ideas for—which you probably noticed sprinkled around the story—none of which are resolved in Chapter 44.
> 
> So. Here's your choice now. You can click the next chapter button down below and be taken on to Chapter 44 which is short and easy and doesn't tax anyone very much at all. OR!!!! You can totally ignore Chapter 44 and instead click on the button that will take you to the second part of this story universe. It's another almost 24k words added onto this monstrosity, but while the Alternative Ending (much like the original story) has its flaws, I personally think it gives a far more complete ending and a more "realistic" resolution to the story. 
> 
> That is the choice before you. Choose well, wanderers. Regardless of what you decide, however, I promise I'm not judging you.
> 
> (Just kidding, I'm totally judging you.)
> 
> -cey


	44. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD. This is the last chapter guys. Wait, I need to say that again.
> 
> This is the last chapter guys.
> 
> I have anguished over this resolution for longer than I can tell you and there's a good possibility there will be an alternative ending for this fic because there are no words for how much I hate parent!lock and the idea of parent!lock. I was setting up for about three different endings at once (You probably noticed.) This one won out purely on the basis that I figured it would make the most number of people happy.
> 
> But! For now! I present to you, Chapter 44 and The End.
> 
> Thank you. All of you. So much. All of you commenting and leaving kudos and actually READING, it is because of you that this story got finished at all. So thank you. Bless you. I hope you all had at least a little bit of fun.
> 
> ________________________________________
> 
> Oh hello! Yes, so update, THERE IS AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING!!!! I know, it's very exciting. It's way better than this one. Like totally. If you mosey along to the second part of this series, it is conveniently called A Long Way Home - Alternative Ending and like seriously it's way better. It takes off right at the end of chapter 43 so you can just totally ignore this chapter, I really don't mind at all.

_**Three months later.** _

 

Sherlock's rise to consciousness is a gradual thing, shaped by warmth and light that bleeds in through his pores and leaves him floating just off the edge of wakefulness. He is content to lie here, half aware of the reality of traffic on Baker Street, the morning peering in through the crack in the curtains, the way his body dips towards the centre of the bed.

As he starts to drift upwards, he becomes more aware of the specifics of the long line of heat that is pressed against him; the small movements of breath that don't belong to him, the hint of a second pulse pushing faintly against the palm of his hand. It is so warm, the blankets cocooned around him, the radiator-like quality of John Watson pressed snug into the curve of his body. He sighs and feels the tickle of hair against his cheek.

There is a shift in the body against his, a small increase in pressure as John pushes back into him, and even before he's fully awake Sherlock feels the thrust of heat against his pelvis and is aware of the quick thunder as his blood begins to quicken and converge.

He sighs again, louder this time, and he feels John's response in the shift of his body.

“Good morning,” John says, his voice low and rough with sleep.

Sherlock nuzzles against the bare shoulder that is inches away from his mouth. “Morning. How long have you been awake?”

John huffs a quiet laugh. “Can't put anything past you, can I?”

“I don't know why you still bother trying.”

“Keep you on your toes.”

John is warm and soft and tight against him. They are naked under the sheets and Sherlock can feel the blood pooling in his groin, the beginnings of an erection already pushing at the curve of John's behind. John makes a noise, somewhere between a groan and a sigh and he gives a small thrust of his hips, the crease of his arse sliding against Sherlock's cock.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, his mouth sliding against his shoulder.

“Jesus, Sherlock. We don't have time for this.” But John is already breathing hard and Sherlock sees the flush creeping up over his chest.

“There's always time.”

“That's not what you said last week when that jewel thief—” he cuts off with a gasp as the tip of Sherlock's cock presses against him. “Fuck,” he moans.

“I intend to,” Sherlock murmurs and he bares his teeth against John's shoulder, biting down, and he feels John's hips jump against his.

“Sherlock, oh my God.” John tries to turn around but Sherlock holds him tightly against him, laving his shoulder, kissing his neck. He grinds his cock into John's arse and he can feel the hot space where he wants to go and he nudges upwards.

John whines, pushing down, and Sherlock wants to fuck him, wants to be surrounded, to surround. He makes a growling sound and with a push at John's shoulder nudges him onto his front. He goes willingly, his hips already rising off the bed, and Sherlock doesn't wait, doesn't waste time. They need to leave soon and he is determined to have this last uninterrupted moment with John before chaos descends upon the flat.

He reaches for the bedside table and grabs the lube from where John had tossed it the night before. The lid clicks as he pushes it open and John's hips give a twitch and he grinds against Sherlock's cock, pressing now at his entrance.

“Shh, gently,” Sherlock murmurs, and he wants to drape himself over him, wants to envelope him entirely, but there isn't time,  _ there isn't time,  _ so he squeezes the lube onto his finger and presses it firmly against John's tight entrance.

He loves this moment, John sighing underneath him, the slick push of his own finger disappearing into the tight heat of his hole. John is writhing on his hand, huffing and whining into the sheets. Sherlock wants to do this now, he wants to push into him, cover John entirely with his own body, inside him and over him until there is nothing left that is just  _ John, _ nothing that is  _ Sherlock. _ He wants to get closer, so much closer, but even he hasn't figured out how yet. He wants to split their cells in half and bind them together.

He pulls out and John sighs, his arse straining upwards, demanding, reaching, until Sherlock pushes back in with two fingers this time, and John tightens around him with a soft cry that is captured and muffled by the cotton bedding.

“Sherlock. Sherlock. Jesus Christ, just fuck me,” he gasps, but Sherlock loves this, watching the way he vanishes  _ inside _ of John, as close as he'll ever be.

“Not yet, John.”

“Sherlock, I swear to God I will come in your favourite shoes if you don't fuck me right now.”

Sherlock gives a snort of laughter and he sees the grin on John's face even as his eyes squeeze shut and he strains against the fingers thrust deep into his arse.

“Impatient,” Sherlock chides and pulls out with an abruptness that drags a curse from John. Sherlock squeezes more lube out and slicks it over his cock, hard and aching, and he doesn't give John any warning before he is at his entrance and shoving in with a single deliberate thrust.

A shout is ripped from John's throat and then a long, loud string of curses. “You bloody wanker, just wait till it's your turn,” he growls back at him, but Sherlock knows John, knows he loves this. He isn't even moving but John is already pushing back against him, seeking stimulation, and Sherlock grins at him, his teeth bared.

He doesn't wait to give John a chance to get used to the feeling of being filled, of being split. He wraps his hands around John's hips and starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before pushing all the way back in. He thrusts into him at a hard, steady pace, giving John no chance to catch up and John is panting and shouting by now, red faced and clutching at the cotton sheets, trying to meet thrust for thrust and failing.

Sherlock can feel the pressure building, the need to come rising, and he wishes he could slow down, he wishes he could stop, make this last. He remembers last night, pushing against each other for what felt like hours, that slow, incredible slide upwards into bliss. They had been hot and sobbing against each other by the end, small fierce kisses filled with want and depth and worship. He can't even fathom how much he loves this man, how much he needs him. But they haven't time.  _ They haven't time. _ He lets go of John's hip with his right hand and reaches around him. John's cock is feverish to the touch, hard and slick with precome. There is still lube on Sherlock's hand, enough at least for this. It barely takes two pumps, a quick up and down before John gives a sobbing cry and he is coming, and Sherlock feels the hot liquid spurting between his fingers, and he doesn't even try to hold back. His hips give a sharp jerk and he is buried deep in John and coming hard. He can hear his own voice shouting John's name, over and over and over, and it seems disconnected, unreal. Everything is so far away, the whole world shrunk to the feeling of John's heat turning him into a pyre.

When he comes down again, the flames burning slowly back down into coals, he is sprawled over John's back and they are both heaving. John is twitching in the last convulsions of his orgasm and Sherlock feels them wracking through him and he holds onto him tighter, wrapping his arms around him as far as he can. John moans, turning his head sideways and Sherlock dips down and presses a kiss at the corner of his panting mouth.

“Good morning, love,” he says.

John snorts. “Wanker.”

Sherlock smirks and drops a last kiss behind his ear and rolls off of him. John gives a grunt and follows, rolling on his side and burrowing under Sherlock's arm.

“So,” he says with a sigh. “Today's the day.”

Sherlock feels John's hair and breath on his chest and he is warmed and happy, but the words send a momentary stutter through his heart and he feels John raise his head slightly, trying to find his eyes.

“I know, love,” John says, trying to make him look at him. “I know. I'm so sorry. I know you don't want this.”

Sherlock can feel his own frown, tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he hates that tone in John's voice, that fear, that guilt, when he has nothing to be afraid of and nothing to feel guilty for.

“Stop it,” he growls. “I just want you. That's all.”

“If you...” John pauses. Takes a breath and rests his head on Sherlock's chest, his face carefully averted. “If it doesn't work,” he says, and Sherlock hears the determined neutrality of his voice, wishes he could see his face. “If you can't...I understand, okay? I know. I'll understand. I love you and I swear I won't be mad. It won't change how I feel about you, okay? Christ, I love you so much. And I would do anything—but I can't. You understand that, right? I can't—she's my daughter.”

_ She's not, though. She's David's daughter. She's Mary's daughter. She's not yours. _

Sherlock thinks all this but he doesn't say it, because he can feel the restrained shudders of the body pressed close against his, and he is slowly aware of the feel of tears, hot against his cooling skin, and he feels his heart breaking because this is John,  _ his John _ , who is crying. The same John who refused to cry at his grave site almost four years. The same John who didn't shed a tear when it turned out his wife had been lying to him and cheating on him. The same John who had watched him get on a plane, to be taken away forever without almost no visible reaction, though Sherlock read the numb shock of horror staring out at him from behind broken eyes. John doesn't cry. John never cries. But Sherlock feels the tears now, sliding down his chest, and he knows that this is his fault, that he put them there. Because he knows John. He knows what this man is and it's one of the reasons he loves him so much.

“John, you idiot,” he says, and he pulls him against him, his arms tightening around John's shoulders which are heaving now and he hears the break in John's throat as he tries so hard not to cry. “I swear to God, John, if you ever walk out that door without me I will come after you and kidnap you forcibly if I have to.”

John laughs wetly and Sherlock feels him curling inwards against him, the way he tries to make himself smaller and Sherlock has no idea what to do, how to fix this. Because John is the fixer, John is the one who's supposed to save him,

“I love you, John,” he says, and he's horrified to feel the quiver in his own voice. “You are it, do you understand? There is no one else. I didn't even think there would be you.”

“Fuck. I know, you bloody wanker,” John laughs shakily. “Do you know how long I spent pining after you?”

“Are you talking about lust or love? Because I believe the former predates the latter.”

“Piss off.”

But he's laughing now, giggling through the congestion of his nose and Sherlock knows that nothing,  _ nothing  _ would make him change his mind about this. Not a dozen children. _ Well. Maybe a dozen. _

They shower together, washing each other down with soap, and Sherlock almost delays them further with his thoroughness. John washes Sherlock's hair like he always does, running his fingers over his scalp and tugging them through his curls, and Sherlock stands with his head bent, staring at the chest before him, tracing the purple lines of flesh healed over, the pink puckering mark of the new gun shot on his right shoulder, and the white ruined mass of flesh of the old one on his left. He has traced these scars a hundred times over by now and he knows them intimately, could follow them with his eyes closed. Soon the new ones will fade to white, as well, and Sherlock will be able to feel them with the tips of his fingers, the smooth silver of their surfaces, and he won't feel the familiar rage that jumps into his throat every time he thinks of Mary.

_ Mary. _

“Okay, rinse,” John says, pushing him lightly so that he stands under the shower spray and Sherlock closes his eyes as John threads his fingers through his hair and the suds run down his body and spiral away.

They step out, towelling themselves off, and Sherlock rubs the steam off the bathroom mirror as John wanders off to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

They get dressed in increments like they always do, pants first for both of them, then John pulls on his trousers next while Sherlock slips into his shirt. They wander around like this for a while, finding excuses to touch each other as they walk past, fingers finding naked flesh. By the time their tea is finished, another set of trousers have been donned and socks have been discovered. John's top half is a gradual process, starting with a vest, then a button down, and lastly, after all other clothing between them has been acquired, he pulls on whatever jumper he happens to fancy that day. Sherlock has tried hard to find a pattern in John's jumper wearing habits, but so far he has yielded nothing and he half believes John is doing it on purpose.

It's almost time to leave, though the drive to Bronzefield prison takes less than an hour. Sherlock can feel himself tensing, his nerves beginning to dance. He looks at John and he notes carefully the way his expression has gradually slipped into a downward curve, his brows sitting heavily over his eyes and the corners of his mouth sliding into a slow frown. It is John's angry face, the expression he has when he wants to snap and knows he can't. It is fierce and frightening and it never fails to make Sherlock hard.

“John,” he says carefully, and for a moment Sherlock isn't sure that John is really looking at him, though he's staring right at him. “John,” he says again, and he sees the heavy blink of his blue eyes, the slow lightening of his features.

“Yeah?” John answers after a moment and Sherlock knows he's back in the room, back with Sherlock.

“We don't have to see Mary, you know that, right? We just have to get the baby and leave. There's no reason why you ever need to look at her again.”

“I know that.”

“But you're going to anyway.”

John grimaces. “I think I need to. Just. I want to know why. I don't understand.”

“She's a psychopath. What's to understand?”

John nods, but it's an absent gesture and Sherlock sees the frown start to come back and he hates that, he hates when John goes away, slides off to some place in his own head and leaves Sherlock behind. Sherlock has no idea what John keeps in his head, how much of it is Sherlock, and he finds himself intensely jealous of the bits of John that he still hasn't discovered, that he still hasn't penetrated.

“Dinner,” he blurts, because it's the first thing he can think of.

John's head snaps up and he looks confused. “What?”

“Dinner next week. Douglas, Carolyn, and Arthur.”

“What about it?”

Sherlock sighs impatiently. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course I don't mind. They quite literally saved our lives. They could camp out on our sofa for the next ten years and I probably wouldn't begrudge them.”

Sherlock looks aghast and John laughs, his face clearing in an instant and he comes forward and wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, letting his head fall onto his chest.

“How's their new pilot. What was his name?”

“Sherrinford. One of Mycroft's. Speaking of which, he signed MJN on as official courier for undercover agents last week.”

“Jesus. Really?”

Sherlock grimaces. “I know.”

“Douglas must be a bit thrilled in any event. A bit of undercover excitement without any actual danger.”

“Honestly I think Carolyn is more excited than he is. Arthur, of course, hasn't a clue.”

“Well no, that would be disastrous.”

Sherlock snorts.

“We should go,” John says, and Sherlock feels him sigh against him, the way his whole body heaves and he burrows himself closer into the silk of Sherlock's shirt. “I don't want to,” he says, and it's so quiet Sherlock almost misses it.

He tightens his arms, nuzzling his nose into John's hair, smelling the shampoo they share against his scalp. “It'll be fine,” he says. “It'll all be fine.”

“Promise?” John asks, and he sounds young, miserable, unsure.

“If I must.”

“God I love you.”

“Of course. Come on, we're going to be late.”

John heaves a last sigh against Sherlock's chest before dragging himself away and slowly they pull on shoes and coats, gloves and scarf. When they reach the pavement the black car is already there, waiting for them, and as they wait for the door to open, Sherlock glances the smooth motion of a large orange cat slinking into the space between two houses further up the street. It's a tattered looking thing with a bushy tail and torn ears.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John turns to him, a quizzical look on his face even as the door opens and they are beckoned inside by one of Mycroft's voiceless minions.

“Yeah?”

“How do you feel about cats?”

 


End file.
